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  Purpose

  ( Soul Savers - 2 )

  Kristie Cook

  Defending souls is her purpose...but can she save her own?

  Lost in despair, Alexis teeters on the edge of an abyss, her lifeline of hope fraying into a thin thread. If it snaps, she'll plunge into complete darkness. With the help of her son and her writing, she's been able to hold on. Until now. Erratic impulses, disturbing delusions and her own demonic blood threaten her sanity. When she's forced to choose between hanging onto hope or letting go to serve her Amadis purposes, she faces a decision with inconceivable sacrifices.

  Alexis runs to the one place she thinks will provide answers, only to find herself at the center of another battle of good versus evil, not only with the Daemoni, not only within herself...but also against the worst opponent imaginable. But even if she wins, what will she lose?

  Purpose

  Soul Savers - 2

  by

  Kristie Cook

  For Yvonne Clark and Gertrude Perguson And in honor of Sheree Cook Chestnut

  Acknowledgements

  This is truly the hardest part of a book to write. There are so many people who made this book a reality, including you, the reader.

  Thank you to my publishing team at Ang’dora Productions for your dedication and support. Chrissi Jackson, you have been my lifeline to reality, keeping me on track through all the insanity. Thank you for everything you’ve done…especially for the word “dictate.” Thank you, Lisa Adams, for your positive energy, beautiful spirit, keen eyes and willingness to enter and support the chaos. You are both real gifts from the Angels.

  Thank you to my writing buddies who helped me build and polish this story into what it is today. Meredith S. Wood, I appreciate your challenges and camaraderie. Judy Spelbring, thank you for being real in your critiques, for pointing out my weaknesses and for helping me move beyond “it.” Michelle Gregory, I so love that you are as invested in my characters as in your own, helping me to see where I have not done them justice. Thank you, as well, for being my indie partner-in-crime. I appreciate all of you and what you’ve done for the story.

  Of course, none of this would have happened without the patience, support and love of my family. Thank you to my boys – Zakary, Austin and Nathan – for being so freaking awesome that I sometimes can’t breathe because I’m so proud of you. You’ve really been amazing throughout this process and I can’t thank you enough. Thank you, Shawn, for your continued encouragement and commitment. Thank you, Mom, Dad, Keena and Terry, for all that you’ve done, past, present and future. And thank you, Grandma Yvonne, for passing down the love of words, reading and writing.

  Finally, once again, thank you, the reader, for your love of Alexis and Tristan and their story. I sincerely appreciate your reviews, advocacy and support. You’ve motivated me to keep going, when I really just wanted to sleep. I appreciate your devotion and patience and I hope you enjoy this next part of the tale of the ultimate warrior and the fierce protector.

  Prologue

  Living with half a soul is like living forever in the hour before dawn, when the sky is no longer black, but a dark, charcoal gray, waiting for the light. It’s like clinging to the hope of a new day lingering just beyond the horizon. The new day that never comes. The light that never brightens the world.

  I live in varying shades of darkness and with each shade, I feel like a different person entirely…but always only half a person. Always half empty. Except when I’m with my son, when I feel the most like the real me, the old me. When I am Almost Alexis. Dorian pushes the darkness away and brightens my life. With him, I actually feel half full.

  But then there’s Swirly Alexis, who disorients my thoughts to the point where I don’t know what is real and what is fiction, swirling my world into confusion.

  And Psycho Alexis is blind to everything but rage, lashing out with a heart and soul black as ink.

  Foggy Alexis, however, rules most of the time, allowing me to live in a dense fog, with no clear edges to my life, my thoughts, my feelings. She numbs the pain so I can survive without screaming.

  The only sure thing I know is the rope of hope I hold so tightly to—the hope that Tristan still lives. That he will come back. Just as he promised.

  Over time, however, the rope has thinned and now begins to fray. I have tried to strengthen it by making a promise of my own. That I will rescue him from his hell after I go through the Ang’dora—a promise he may never know but I will nonetheless keep. If the Ang’dora arrives before it’s too late. As time passes, I don’t know if I can continue hanging on. What remains of the rope is now just a thin thread. If it breaks, I will plunge into an abyss of complete darkness.

  For now, the thread still remains intact. And as long as it does, I will hold on. I will hold onto that hope. Even if doing so means living in darkness. Even if it means living with just half a soul, as half a person. Because I am reminded nightly that I need to, that our souls are worth it.

  For a short time every night, I allow myself to remember, if only in my subconscious. And then I know again what it feels like to have a whole soul. To feel loved. To be complete. To live in a world of beautiful color and light. To know that he lives. And so does the Real Alexis. Somewhere, we cling to each other, our souls still united. Somewhere, we live together in the light.

  But then the sun rises and life goes dark again….

  Chapter 1

  March, Present Day

  We sat side-by-side on white sand, gentle waves sliding onto the beach with just a whisper and the sun low, about to tuck itself behind the horizon. Pink, purple and gold streaked the sky and reflected on the water. The mixed smell of salt and cocoa butter wafted on the warm air. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to pull the whole scene in so it would become a part of me. His tangy-sweet scent filled my senses. Fresh mangos and papayas mixed with lime and sage and just a hint of man. I would never forget that smell.

  I opened my eyes to find his exquisite face only inches from mine. My heart skipped a beat—or three or four. The gold flecks in his hazel eyes sparkled brightly. His full lips lifted at the corners in an enticing smile. He lifted his hand to stroke my cheek. His fingers lingered, his palm gently cupping my face. He leaned forward, still holding my eyes. He hesitated. My heart stopped beating. My breathing ceased, too. And the rest of the world melted away as his lips met mine and he kissed me for the first time.

  In a heartbeat, we rode his motorcycle along the causeway to Gasparilla Island. The engine rumbled underneath me, the sound loud but comforting. I wrapped my arms tightly around his waist and pressed myself into his powerful body. We stopped at our favorite place on the beach and just sat on the bike, watching the dolphins. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against his. His lovely voice murmured, “I love you, ma lykita.”

  When I opened my eyes again, we were at our beach house in the Florida Keys, the one he built for my wedding present. The white leather bodice of my dress fell to the floor. Then he lifted me to the bed. And we made love for the first time. Then we were in the shower. Then the motel shower in North Carolina. It was our last time. Ever.

  I closed my eyes, wanting to hold onto him because I knew what came next. When I opened them again, we were at the safe house and I begged him not to leave. Then he led Stefan, Owen and Solomon out the front door and into the battle. Scenes flashed quickly—shooting lights, mangled body parts, spurting blood. They were suddenly somewhere else, another field, the safe house nowhere in sight. Daemoni attacked the powerful warrior, once theirs. He fought, but there were too many. Dozens of dog-like creatures. Hundreds of them. Their fangs sank into his flesh. The scene changed again, now to a foreign place. A desert valley or some kind of cavern, stone mountains or walls reaching to the sk
y. He could no longer fight back, but writhed on the ground, his beautiful face contorted in agony. And then he went still.

  “NOOOO!” I screamed.

  My eyes flew open and I gasped for air. I looked around wildly as my eyes adjusted to the abrupt change. Darkness surrounded me. My fists clamped the bed sheet to my chest. The duvet hung off the edge of the bed, kicked to the side. I forced myself to pull in a long, controlled breath, and then let the air out just as slowly. My breaths eventually became even and my heart finally settled. I looked at the clock, already knowing it was around 3:45 a.m. The blue lights glowed 3:51.

  Every night was the same as the one before. Regardless of what time I would finally fall asleep, around 3:45 I would awake screaming and gasping for breath. My imagination created the last part of the memory-dream, but the rest was real and very precious. Some nights, when my subconscious knew my soul needed more, I relived some of our other times together.

  I threw myself back on the pillow and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember in my conscious mind what my subconscious could so easily play back. I struggled to pull the image of the beautiful face back into clarity. The edges blurred, as if an oily film coated the lens I looked through. I’m losing him. The image had become dim, faded with time. I can’t forget. I can’t forget, damn it! But remembering had become so hard. My dreams showed Tristan perfectly, but my waking mind had lost the clarity, unable to focus on the details.

  I tried to recreate the scenes—the good ones—in my mind, focusing on the background, the feels, the smells, hoping my wandering mind could bring his face into view naturally. My scheme began to work. The blurry edges started to sharpen, the light on his face grew brighter, the hazel eyes came into focus….

  My consciousness drifted off as I held onto his face. And then I heard his lovely voice, distant and muffled: “I’ll come back. I promise.”

  My dream-self felt surprised and confused. This is new.

  Then clear and close: “Alexis.”

  It wasn’t the same voice.

  Evil! Daemoni! Evil!

  The alarms of my sixth sense rang in my head. The beautiful face disappeared as my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. I shot up and realized I sat on my bed again. I glanced around the darkness for the source of the gravelly voice.

  “Who’s there?” I asked, my voice thundering through the silence.

  A shadow shifted in the corner. Two small, red lights glowed from about two-thirds up the wall. I realized they were eyes. It can’t really be Daemoni—can it? We hadn’t been bothered for over seven years. Not a single visit or even a threat. Nothing at all. They had what they wanted.

  “Don’t you know?”

  The shadow moved forward, just enough for the light from my clock to slightly illuminate a face—pale, bluish-white in the clock’s glare, glowing eyes and…fangs. The light reflected off his glimmering teeth, bared in an evil grin, if that’s what you could call it, and I knew for sure those were fangs. And I knew immediately what he was. From what I could see, he favored some of my characters, as if he’d stepped out of the pages of the books I wrote.

  Such a strange feeling—to feel as though I’d awakened in my usual way but know I was dreaming again. I had to be. Monsters were real, but vampires were not.

  “C-Claudius?” My voice shook. I knew this dream was about to become a terrible nightmare. With his dark hair floating around the sides of his face, this visitor looked similar to my Claudius, leader of the evilest vampire nest in my make-believe world.

  “Ha!” the shadow barked. “So you do see the resemblance.”

  I didn’t respond. I stared wide-eyed at the barely visible face, wondering what would come next. My heart pounded in my ears and my lungs seemed unable to pull in any air. I wanted to scream myself awake. But I couldn’t. I was frozen.

  The vampire came closer, almost near enough to touch…if I dared to reach out.

  “I am not your dim-witted Claudius,” he growled, “but my world and my ways are very similar. In fact, too similar. You are bold—and foolish—to tell the humans.”

  In a strange way, the dream made him more real. More frightening than any of my characters, even Claudius. The timbre of his voice held promises of horror, the sound more terrifying than I ever imagined when I wrote.

  But his words made no sense.

  “I-I d-don’t understand.”

  “I am not stupid, woman, and I know you are not entirely ignorant. I know who you are. You know what I am. You have crossed the line in revealing our truths. You must stop writing and exposing us, Alexis. Or we will stop you ourselves.”

  The flaming red eyes narrowed. The nostrils flared.

  The vampire cocked his head and growled again. “No more, Alexis, or we will come for you!”

  Pop! The overhead light suddenly flooded the bedroom with brightness. I was sitting bolt upright in my bed, my heart hammering again, wide awake with the sound and light. I blinked at Mom’s figure standing at the foot of my bed.

  “Are you okay?” she demanded.

  My eyes adjusted and now I could see her looking anything but vulnerable, though she only wore a short, baby-doll nightgown. Petite, but tough. She stood with her body tense, coiled and ready to fight, as her narrowed eyes scanned the room. Then she rushed to my side and braced her hands on each side of my face. She seemed to appraise every inch of me.

  “I’m fine,” I muttered, pulling my face from her grip.

  “You don’t sound or look fine.”

  “You scared the crap out of me.” I lay back down and closed my eyes. “And I had a bad dream. That’s all.”

  She stood there for a long moment and I could feel her eyes still on me. I never heard her footsteps, but the light switched off and the door clicked softly in the latch when she left. Mom was used to me having bad dreams. She had no need to question me.

  When I awoke again, sunlight streamed under the blinds, creating narrow lines of light on the boring beige carpet by my bed. I lay on my stomach and stared at the floor for a while, not wanting to be awake. Then I remembered the dream—not the usual memory-dream, but the new one. I turned over and looked around the room. Of course, no evidence of the vampire. He was just a dream, but it had felt so real and was just so uncharacteristic. Last night was the first time I’d dreamt of anything but those memories since the day my husband disappeared into enemy hands.

  Then I remembered the other anomaly of the night. The whispered promise. But neither the lovely voice nor the memory-dream had returned the rest of the night. Damn vampire. I closed my eyes and tried to pull the face I wanted to see into my vision. A pointless effort. Only a vague image appeared. I was forgetting.

  As time had passed on, as the conscious memories faded, the feeling Tristan was still alive weakened. For the first few years, I’d felt his presence and the grief of living without him nearly consumed me. Eventually, a fog drifted in and settled, dulling the pain…and the memories. Foggy Alexis arrived and I liked her. She kept me numb during the day, allowing memories only at night, when I slept. But now the dullness seemed to be permanently obscuring my conscious memories and dissolving our connection.

  Forcing myself to let it go, I focused my mind on the only things I’d been able to focus on for the last seven years: my son and my writing. Dorian served as the bright spot in my otherwise black life. He lit my path, keeping me from straying away into the complete darkness of insanity. If his father hadn’t already set precedence, it would be hard to believe I could love anyone as much as I loved Dorian.

  I sighed heavily and made myself stand up. I already felt today was not a good day. I felt all wrong. Something inside ticked, like a time bomb. I had a warped sense of time, but I was sure it had been a while since I’d had a really bad day. Since Psycho Alexis had made an appearance. Perhaps those two new dreams had something to do with my mood. Or maybe I had too many pent-up emotions, making me ready to blow.

  Suck it up for now. Need to say good-bye.

 
It was after eight and Mom was probably getting Dorian ready for school. I wanted to say good-bye to him. Then I could lose myself in my writing.

  “Hi, Mom!” Dorian greeted as I trudged into the kitchen. His face lit up, his mouth stretched into that all-too-familiar, beautiful smile and his eyes sparkled. He pulled his jacket on, getting ready to leave. I almost missed him. If I had, Psycho probably would have taken over immediately. But since he was still here, brightening my morning, I could enjoy a few minutes of being Almost Alexis.

  “Hey, little man.” I ruffled his hair—the snow-white color had been unexpected, but I had a feeling a similar-looking towhead had been running around a couple-hundred years ago—and gave him a big smile, too. Only Dorian could elicit a real smile from me. “You ready for school?”

  He shrugged. “I guess. Just today and tomorrow and then it’s Spring Break. And Uncle Owen’s coming!”

  “No fighting at school, okay?” I warned.

  “I’ll try.” He gave me the same promise every day…and rarely followed through on it. He had control of his anger about as much as I did. Usually, he fought kids who teased him about me, his crazy mother.

  “You said the same thing yesterday,” Mom reminded him.

  “That stupid Joey! I hate him, Mimi! He said my dad’s a no good shithead who didn’t want me.”

  “Honey, that’s a bad word. You are too young to be using such language,” Mom said.

  “I didn’t say it! Joey did!”

  The anger at the memory flashed in his eyes—tiny sparks in the gold flecks around his pupils. Anger boiled in my own chest. Once I became “America’s favorite young author,” the media quickly discovered I’d been pregnant at the tender age of nineteen and the father was nowhere to be found. People made up their own stories from there. So when Dorian didn’t feel a need to protect me, he defended his so-called deadbeat dad. Because he knew better.