JUMP (The Senses) Read online

  JUMP

  By

  Cindy Paterson

  Published By Cindy Paterson

  Copyright 2011 by Cindy Paterson

  Canada

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  *This book contains swearing and sexual content.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thank you to my editor.

  Any mistakes are my own.

  For Marilyn who always believed in me.

  AND

  My Mother

  I love you mom

  Table of Contents

  JUMP

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  THE END

  Bibliography

  Glossary of Terms

  DS: Deep Sleep. A state where one can be put into sleep for short periods of time. It can only be done by a Taldeburu.

  Healers: Rare and always women, they are capable of healing other Senses with the touch of their hands, but it comes with a price. They will feel the pain of the injury and envision how the injury occurred. This can be severely traumatic and weaken them.

  On occasion a healer is capable of healing humans, animals and other entities. Telepathy.

  Reflections: A strong empathy towards emotions. Some can take in emotions and alter them, however this can weaken and cause them pain. They are the strongest telepathically.

  Rest: A coma-like state where a Senses dreams their worst memories repetitively. Only a Taldeburu can put a Senses in Rest for a predetermined amount of time.

  Scar: The Goddess Enid embedded an ink drawing on each Senses. The Tattoo's come alive when called upon when a Sense is in need. They must stay within a certain distance of their Sense and will weaken their master. Scars are fierce and some even deadly.

  Sounders: Can detect high frequencies. They must learn to block out sounds as very high pitches can cause severe pain. Telepathy. Telekinesis (they excel at).

  Talde: Group of Senses.

  Taldeburu: Leader of the Senses in their territory.

  Tasters: Distinct tastes occur to let them know of what others are feeling around them. Telepathy (poor ability). Telekinesis (poor ability).

  Trackers: Able to track shed skin cells, making them highly valuable. Telepathy. Telekinesis.

  Visionaries: Able to see through certain objects. Some have the ability to use their eyes to burn objects and/or read in hyper-speed. Telepathy. Telekinesis.

  Wraiths: The four Elemental Wraiths were created in order to assist the Senses in protecting mankind from darkness that walks the earth. They each have the ability to manipulate their element. Wraith of Earth, Fire, Air, Water.

  Prologue

  She vomited the first time she saw him.

  The sick bastard laughed.

  That was hours ago . . . or so she thought. Time meshed into a swamp of leech-sucking minutes.

  Her body, weak and exhausted from fighting, had become a toy to him. Clamped with steel shackles, her wrists and ankles felt like someone had poured alcohol on them and then held them over a scorching fire. Her muscles were cramped from the constant shivering, and her teeth chattered like a jack-hammer.

  She gagged on the pungent smell of black licorice that permeated the air. Her sandpaper throat made swallowing unbearable and every inhalation agony, while her mind screamed in utter anguish and horror.

  The terror of dying had vanished hours ago. Now she prayed for it.

  His long dagger-like nails crawled along her neck where he’d bitten her repeatedly. He gripped her neck, tilting her chin up and to the side. She locked her jaw, waiting for the familiar pain. She didn’t scream any longer—it made no difference—no one was rescuing her from this monster.

  He hissed, the sound like a zipper being undone. She squeezed her eyes shut as the smell of licorice flooded her nostrils and his breath wafted over her skin. She groaned and jerked as his teeth sank deep into her throat.

  She lay unmoving, powerless to refuse him, frozen in the nightmare that had become reality.

  He drank until her vision clouded and her nails loosened from her palms as her body weakened from the blood loss.

  “My sugary Danielle,” he said.

  His voice was a calm melody, as if a paintbrush were running across a fresh white canvas, sweeping, rhythmic and subtle. She loathed that it was captivating. She hated that she compared his voice to something she loved, but she had no control. It was as if his voice had the ability to make her do anything.

  She lay limp as the shackles released and cold fish-like hands grabbed her arms and dragged her across the damp dirt floor to the cage. Her haven. Away from him. Away from the torture.

  The monster threw her inside, the gate slamming behind as she lay huddled in a torn nightshift and underwear. The cage lifted off the ground and rocked back and forth as it was cranked upwards until it settled next to two other cages several stories above the ground.

  Attempting to block out the horror was impossible. It ate away at her from the inside out. Soon it would become worse as the blood he consumed slowly replenished.

  Why was she here? Why her? God, what psycho’s hands had she landed in? Was he going to kill her or continue to feed off her? The questions tormented her thoughts, but there were never any answers.

  Words refused to pass her quivering lips. So cold. The endless shivering, muscles aching from constantly trying to provide her body with warmth. Her throat was dry and hoarse from screaming, as if a razor blade had scraped the flesh, leaving it painful to swallow, speak and breathe.

  Water. Just a drop. One drop to ease the agony, soothe the torture of taking a single breath.

  “Tell me you’re still alive.”

  The familiar voice mixed with the constant sound of water dripping down the inside of his cage, a torture in itself, had become her comfort in this hell.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “God, I’m sorry. I just can’t . . .”

  It took too much energy to move, but she managed to open her eyes and peer at him. Her neighboring prisoner gripped the bars, knuckles white, body tense like a spring wound up so tightly that it was ready to fracture. His mangled leg hung useless, but somehow he still managed to stand.

  “Don’t give up,” he said. “Others know we’re here. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to get you out of here alive. Here . . . try to reach my hands, I’ll give you water.”

  Water. The thought of it made her throat open with anticipation to ease the suffering. She stank like vomit. She wanted to peel away her skin and throw it in the garbage; it wasn’t even good enough for recycling. To drink water, wash out the taste in her mouth, quench her thirst; such a simple everyday action had become an obsessive need.

  “Reach out your hands,” he urged.

  She hesitated only because she wanted to die. How long before you died without water? A slow death to be sure, but . . . she was actually cont
emplating death. Never in her life had she thought of giving up on living. She lived by the moment, enjoying each day no matter what it brought with it. The female thing about holding on to a grudge for weeks on end—yeah, not her thing.

  “I won’t let you die,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Put your hands through the bars.”

  The thought of liquid sliding down her throat was irresistible, even worth the pain of moving limbs that hung like overcooked spaghetti. Survival. She had it lingering inside her still. The tiny hope that she’d see the sky again, feel the wind against her skin and hear her cat purr.

  Danielle put one hand then the other through the bars. She cupped them together and closed her eyes, afraid to watch. Afraid that he wouldn’t be able to reach her and the relief would die.

  The saturation on her skin caused tears to pool in her eyes. Water dripped through the crevices between her fingers and she quickly jolted back, afraid to lose a single drop of what he was offering. She licked her palms, the wetness adhering to her throat. Velvet. Sweet heaven.

  She reached out again and this time opened her eyes. His large hands collected the water from the shower head attached to the top of his cage. It dripped slowly and it took agonizing minutes just to gather a small handful.

  They repeated the process five times, until her arms resisted rising any longer. “Thanks,” she whispered as she collapsed back onto the cold metal floor, legs curled beneath and arms wrapping over her breasts, trying to provide herself with some sort of warmth and dignity, although the latter was improbable after all that had happened.

  She thought she heard him growl, but she wasn’t certain. So many sounds blended with others—screams, chains clanking, water dripping.

  She drifted in and out of sleep, pain mixed with the terror of hearing the clanking of her cage being lowered. Numerous times, she jolted awake to hear the cries of another being tortured.

  “Little one.”

  She woke to the deep male voice that had become her savoir. Her teeth began chattering again and she wrapped her arms around her shivering body. She heard him curse and knew her reprieve had ended.

  The chains rattled and her cage lowered. God, no. How long had it been? Days, minutes, hours? No concept of time, just the realization that the monster would drink from her again.

  “Little one,” he repeated.

  She shuddered, unable to think of anything except what was to come. Her stomach curdled, but she had nothing left to vomit.

  “Listen to me. You will survive this. Don’t give up on me. I promise you, I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Don’t let . . . not again . . . no God . . . please,” she muttered in a haze of shock.

  He cursed again, his fist pounding on the cage bars next to hers. His words were like an assortment of colors mixing together to form muddled sounds. She had no clue what he was talking about. How could he get her out of here? How could anyone help her? Was he losing his mind too? Because she sure as hell felt like she was losing hers, almost welcomed it.

  The cage lowered until it settled on the floor. The door jerked open and cold hands gripped her forearms, dragging her across the dirt floor to the cold steel table. Clanging sounded and then the harsh cold metal clasped around her ankles and wrists. She sucked in air as her abrasions rubbed up against the restraints. Her body lay shivering on the harsh surface as her silent screams bellowed inside her head.

  Footsteps. She tensed. That same step, a slow, precise, casual stride. Then the smell of black licorice penetrated her nostrils. If she survived, she swore she’d never touch the wretched stuff again.

  Her throat constricted, reflexes making her gag.

  Closing her eyes, she prayed to wake from the nightmare as his filthy nails ran across her shoulder to her neck.

  “God, you’re magnificent. Skin so delicate and soft . . . like a dove. Soon you’ll become my Underling. Eager to do as I please, begging me for my blood.” His fingers pressed on the punctures in her skin.

  She jerked against the shackles. Not again. Please God, let him walk away. No more. Please. Please.

  “No. God no,” she cried.

  He chuckled. “I wondered if I’d driven away that fierce spirit. You look rather . . . accepting now. Drink from me and this will end.” He ran a nail across his own wrist and blood rose to the surface. He held it inches away from her mouth. “Drink, Danielle.”

  She turned her head away from the nauseating sight.

  “Soon, my sweet. I am very patient.” He gripped her chin and tilted her head to the side.

  She heard the familiar hiss and her entire body revolted. Her legs and wrists fought the restraints as the scream that tore from her throat screeched like a tortured animal caught in a trap. Rebellion took hold, a fight for her life, for her spirit, which was being sucked from her insides like a vacuum.

  He laughed at her screams, his grip tightening on her chin.

  It was then she heard his voice from above. That deep strong voice that lived in hell with her.

  “Stop. Damn it. Stop. I’ll do what you want.” His voice came hurtling down from his cage in a deep haggard tone. “For Christ’s sake, just let her go.”

  The icy hands left her body.

  She lay shaking, unable to decipher what was going on around her. The man’s words in her mind were familiar and soothing.

  “You will not suffer any longer. Never again, my little one. I swear to you. Never again.”

  Chapter 1

  Two years later

  “Danielle, for the love of God, you have to stop doing this,” Anstice said. “It’s not . . . it’s just not healthy.”

  Danielle stared at the portrait of the man—eyes green like a leaf that had consumed an abundance of rain. His chin sharp and angular, lips thick and a nose with a slight notch on the bridge. Arrogant, confident and definitely proud. She’d painted his dark umber hair wet, drops of water clinging to the ends of the strands that hung an inch below his ears; one drop rested on his cheek as if he were crying.

  It was her best one so far, truly capturing his pain with the corners of his eyes drooping, sadness penetrating as he stared directly at you from every direction. Alone and haunted as if something horrific had happened to him—a tormented soul.

  “This is it,” Danielle said, eyes transfixed on her painting. She rubbed her arms, easing the familiar goose bumps that rose whenever she looked at him. “He’s the one in my dreams.”

  Her best friend sighed. “You said that the last time and the time before and the time before that. You’ve painted what . . . twenty, thirty of this guy?”

  Danielle shrugged. Yeah, so what. She’d lost count. He lived in her dreams every night, haunting, driving her to paint him again and again. He was like a mosquito buzzing in her ear and no matter what, she couldn’t swat it away. The ruse of it was that the damn mosquito had become a familiar friend.

  She ran her finger across the canvas, touching his slightly parted lips. He was real. In her heart she knew that at one time she’d known him, spoken to him. She knew his voice, a deep baritone with a hint of huskiness like the soft roar of a beautifully tuned Ferrari.

  “I know he was there. And don’t start with me, Anstice.” Danielle pointed at the painting. “I’m telling you, this guy had something to do with my abduction.” It was in his eyes staring into her soul, telling her he felt her pain, knew what she’d been through. In her dreams this beautiful man spoke to her, reached out with his hands and tried to save her from the black shadow who had tortured her. She’d know if he’d been responsible, wouldn’t she? She was drawn to him, not revolted by his face. Even if her memory was washed away, her body knew.

  “Danielle—” Anstice placed her hand on her shoulder, “—you have to stop this. Please. It’s making it worse.”

  Danielle was well aware that Anstice hated the portraits. When her friend had seen the first one two years ago, she’d looked sick to her stomach, her complexion fading to a translucent white and her eyes widen
ing with horror. Ever since then she avoided the paintings altogether. Her excuse was that the man looked haunted and it freaked her out to look at him.

  He was rather formidable looking with those piercing eyes. But he also emitted a strength that in some sense gave her determination to conquer another day. Then again, he reminded her of the frustration of living with a black hole in her mind. She’d never been one to sit quietly and take whatever life threw at her; instead she fought for what she desired. And she needed this. No, it was stronger than that. She had to have this like her lungs needed the next breath.

  Danielle shrugged off Anstice’s hand and strode to the front door. “I have to remember, damn it.” She flipped the Open sign to Closed and locked the door to her art gallery, which she’d aptly named Danielle’s. “You have no clue what it’s like waking up in the night freezing cold, feeling like clammy ice-cold hands are on my body, hearing a stupid tap dripping, but lo and behold there’s no water running anywhere in my place. Fuckin’ hell, Anstice, I was tortured by some psycho.” She kicked an unopened box of supplies. “I can’t even go on a date anymore without being afraid it’s the guy coming to abduct me again. I hate it.”

  “It’ll take time.” Anstice’s voice was soft, and tears surfaced in her eyes.

  “Time? Are you joshing me? It’s been two bloody years. I live like a hermit. Me. The free spirit with a tattoo on her butt. I don’t like men touching me. Black licorice makes me vomit, but before the abduction, I ate it by the truckload. I hate any sort of confinement and . . .” Shit, she even peed with the bathroom door open. Danielle stormed over to the portrait. “And I hate you,” she shouted and then punched her fist through the middle of the canvas.