Forsaken Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Leanna Ellis

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Studio Gearbox

  Cover illustration by Studio Gearbox

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ellis, Leanna.

  Plain fear : forsaken / Leanna Ellis.

  p. cm.

  1. Amish—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3605.L4677P57 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2011017398

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Reita,

  Rest peacefully, my sweet friend.

  There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear…

  1 John 4:18

  Prologue

  Jacob Fisher shoved the metal door, banging it against the warehouse, and the hollow sound reverberated in the awaiting stillness. Don’t look back. Not one glance.

  As he bolted into the sticky heat, darkness devoured him, but he continued into it, grateful for his only cover. The damp pavement made his tennis shoes skid, and his arms flailed wide as he regained his balance and pushed himself faster, harder, further. A shaft of light injected hope into him. How far?

  Lungs burning, he risked one glance over his shoulder. Just one.

  The warehouse door remained open, the alley empty. He was alone. For now. But how much longer? Whispers encircled him. Was it the wind? Or was it them?

  “Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” Jacob whispered the Shakespearean words like a prayer.

  Or had he gone crazy?

  Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d,

  Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,

  Be thy intents wicked or charitable…

  No, they weren’t a fabrication of his imagination or a half-baked fantasy. They were real, far too real. The blood, the bodies, and the evil permeating every crevice were authentic. Trolls of the night. Visitors from the bowels of hell. Their purpose was heinous, reflected in those black eyes that were void of feeling. And they chased after him now.

  Misty rain surrounded him, not falling and yet always there, disorienting and confusing him. In those few seconds, he lived a century before he reached the end of the alley and skidded to a stop. Streetlamps provided halos of golden light, illuminating cars and storefronts, and yet at the same time created shadowy exiles. Where was everyone? An hour earlier—or had more time passed than he realized?—the street had teemed with people. Cars had honked, sirens screamed, and traffic lights blinked green, yellow, and red in quick succession. Both young and old had jockeyed for place along the crowded sidewalks, eager to get home after a long workweek.

  But now, not one soul. Not one person to help. Not a single witness.

  Fear gnawed at him. He’d only felt that kind of fear once before, when he had knelt beside Hannah’s too still body. But his mind had stormed the barricade of fear then, frantic and frenzied. Do something! Quick! His heart had pounded out doubt. How could he save her?

  Now what could he do to save himself? This fear continued to chase him, snapping at his heels. He bolted ahead of it, keeping just out of its chilling reach.

  He kept to the sidewalk’s edge, pressed his body flat along the brick building, pausing before each darkened doorway. Glance left. Right. Go. Shoot through the pale lamplight. Stop in the dark. Chest heaving. Check—front, back, then go again.

  Metal bars covered the windows of the shops. Someone had warned him this part of New Orleans wasn’t safe. What part was? But wasn’t the possibility of danger why he’d come to the Big Easy?

  His whole life he’d played with danger like a child’s toy, running further, climbing higher, pushing farther than any of his friends dared. Maybe that’s why he’d read books with their forbidden, dark views that had given him a glimpse of another world, a world set apart from what he’d known and experienced in his home of Promise, Pennsylvania, and made him question
, wonder, and imagine. All his life he’d yearned to walk on the sinister edge, teetering on the brink of uncertainty.

  But not anymore. God help him! Not anymore.

  He imagined his father clad in plain, black clothes with his straw, flat-brimmed hat, his stern, sullen expression accompanying the slight disapproving shake of the head that made his long beard dust the front of his shirt. Jacob had seen that look too many times, and he could almost hear his father say the usual, “Ach, Jacob…”

  Then something solid snagged Jacob’s foot, and he stumbled out of his memory and righted himself with a steadying hand on the brick wall of a pawnshop. He glanced back at the shadows—a dirt-crusted shoe…a shabby coat…grizzled face. The old man’s watery eyes swayed drunkenly, unable to focus, and he clutched a nearly empty bottle.

  Could this old drunk be a sacrificial lamb? His salvation? Could he serve as a decoy? The decision came easily. Too easily. Jacob took one step away. Then another. Rationalizations paved his escape. Who would miss this drunk? No one would blame Jacob for abandoning him, leaving him in the path of those who were coming.

  But one last glance at the old man slowed his footsteps. Guilt clawed at him, ripped through the fear. More of his father’s words came back to him: Doing right is often doing that which is hardest. Cursing his own stupidity, Jacob jerked around, brushed at the sweat on his forehead, and retraced his path. “Hey! Hey, mister?”

  The old man’s head bobbled as if it might roll off his shoulders.

  “Is there somewhere you can go?” Months in New Orleans had shaved off most of the Pennsylvania Dutch accent from Jacob’s speech.

  The drunk mumbled something unintelligible.

  Jacob hesitated. Should he sacrifice himself for an old drunk? If it be God’s will. Right was right, no matter if it was in Promise or New Orleans. He grasped the old man’s dark brown coat. The smell of urine, sweat, and rancid wine made his nostrils flare.

  The drunk yanked back, protecting his bottle, and the liquid sloshed. “Mine.”

  “I don’t want your booze, old man.” Reaching into his jean pocket, Jacob pulled out a folded twenty. The way he’d once offered a carrot to an obstinate workhorse on Daniel Schmidt’s farm back home, he waved the money in front of the drunk. “Look, here. I’ll buy you more booze. Whatever you want.”

  The weak, bloodshot brown gaze locked onto the bill, and the old man swiped a hand outward in a slow, klutzy effort to gain the twenty. His legs twitched as if trying to stand but were limp and disjointed. Jacob fisted the money and grasped the man around the middle. He weighed less than a couple sacks of feed.

  Jacob dragged the drunk past a darkened drug store and cleaners. Now what? He kept moving forward, glancing behind each time he thought he heard a footfall, the sound of a distant siren, or whispers.

  “Thirsty.” The man’s voice sounded condensed by the thick, moist air. Fog rose from the pavement like tidewaters.

  “Just a little further,” Jacob coaxed. But where would they go? And how long till they found him?

  Neon lights from a liquor store flashed red across the pavement, and an electric sign in the window buzzed and popped. He pulled the old man toward the light and propped him near the door. Metal mesh curled from the outer door and scraped Jacob’s arm, drawing blood. Flinching, Jacob jerked open the door and twisted the knob of the inner one.

  Liquor bottles lined the shelves behind a counter, and a black man glared at him, his brow furrowing over thick brows and suspicious eyes. “We’re closed.”

  Jacob pressed the twenty in the old man’s hands and shoved him forward. “Stay here. Until it’s safe. And”—he met the irritated gaze of the clerk—“lock the door.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Jacob searched the shadows along the street. Nothing stirred. Silence constricted all sounds. But he sensed them. He heard their whispers, circling, clouding out all reason, disorienting him. They stalked him. Hunted him like prey. They were coming. Would nothing stop them? With all the time in the world, it was a game to them, and they would toy with him first.

  He pushed through the fog and rain, the drops thickening and falling in earnest, plastering his shirt to his chest. Through the silvery haze, a statue glowed ghostlike; its smooth face calmed him, drew him toward it, and he stumbled forward, crossing a street. The whispers fell away as he crouched low and found refuge beneath the shadow of its angelic wing. From that vantage point, he squinted up at the soft curve of the cheek, the full lower lip. His heart thudded heavily. The smooth marble reminded him of her face. He should have never left her. Why had he? Tears blurred his vision and the stone angel wavered before him. The words of an old poem came back to him: “But we loved with a love that was more than love—”

  If he lived through this night, he would go home. To Hannah.

  Chapter One

  Two Years Later

  Hannah.

  Her heart leapt, fluttering and gaining strength at the whisper of her name. Hannah Schmidt shifted and stirred under her quilt. “Jacob?” His name came to her lips like a repeated prayer. “Jacob.”

  She sat up and looked around the small, unadorned room. Shadows hung like curtains, heavy and oppressive, leaving the room dark as the soul. She held her breath, waiting to hear the voice again, but it didn’t come.

  After a few minutes, she shoved off the quilt and sat on the edge of her single, narrow bed, her back rigid as she listened to the house settling around her. Dat’s snores rose upward through the floorboards in a low, rhythmic rumbling from her parents’ downstairs bedroom. Her little sister, Katie, slept down the hallway, and in the next bed Rachel, her older sister by two years, slept peacefully, her dreams probably filled with details of her upcoming wedding. The thought twisted in Hannah’s stomach like a knife, the smooth edge slicing away at her own unrealized dreams.

  Lifting the green shade covering the window, Hannah stared out at the night blanketing the countryside, the frost forming along the rows of dried corn stalks and empty fields. Its coolness seeped through her nightclothes and raised chill bumps along her skin.

  Hannah. The voice whispered in her head again. Come to me.

  The tightness in her chest eased at the sound of the now familiar voice. The first time she’d heard the whispering, she’d jumped, looked around, searched for the source. Was it on the wind or in her head? Was it her imagination or something more? Someone calling to her…maybe even from the grave? Jacob.

  Now, the voice called, and she obeyed.

  She dressed quickly, her fingers fastening the straight pins with practiced precision, and she moved across the room and knelt in front of the cedar hope chest. Lifting the lid, she pushed aside a quilt she’d begun making when Jacob left on his cross-country trek, every stitch purposed with the belief that they would lay beneath it together as husband and wife, but the seams remained unfinished, the quilt squares unattached. At the bottom of the chest was a flashlight and a slim, hardcover book, both of which she laid in her lap and tucked her apron around in a makeshift pocket, securing the ends of the apron in the waist, then she closed the lid without a sound and slipped out of the room.

  Careful on the stairs, she avoided each step that creaked and groaned. Dat’s snores grew louder as she descended. Stealing through the kitchen past the wooden slab table, the lone calendar on the wall set to October, the propane-fueled refrigerator, she came to a drawer and hesitated only a moment before tugging it open slowly and quietly. She selected a carving knife, the blade sharp, which pricked her dress material as it clinked against the flashlight in her apron, the heavy handle knocking against her belly.

  When she stepped outside onto the back porch, the coolness of the night made her shiver, but she tiptoed down the steps, careful not to make a sound and awaken her grandfather, who lived in the smaller attached house. The ruts of the gravel drive guided her toward Slow Gait Road, and her footsteps crunched too lou
dly in the stillness. The cooling air brushed her face like a caress. She should have worn her coat, but it was too late to go back. She didn’t want to be late in case he was waiting for her.

  Darkness shadowed her and with it came uneasiness. On her father’s farm, she felt safe, but stepping beyond its boundaries gave her an eerie uncertainty. But nothing would hold her back. At the end of the lane, she pulled the small flashlight from her apron and continued down the dirt road, the beam of yellow light arcing over the bits of dried grass and buggy wheel tracks. Overhead an abundance of stars, like angelic hosts, peeked through the parting clouds to watch over her.

  At the juncture in the road, she detoured across a field, passing a giant oak and three small bushes that, come next summer, would produce blueberries, and she took a path she’d traveled often. She came to a wooden fence and hoisted herself over its rails. The knife, still buried in her apron, clunked against the wood and the point jabbed her hip. Hooking her leg around the top rail, she grabbed the knife and held it with one hand while she clambered down the other side.

  She had never felt more alive, her heart palpitating, every nerve vibrating, her ears sensitive to every crunch of footstep, every rattle of leaf in the wind. She listened fiercely for his voice, his direction. She watched for any shadow, shift, or sudden appearance.

  The circle of light from the flashlight bounced jerkily with each step, then settled on the solid granite tombstones, small and plain and jutting out of the field, many leaning from the weight of years. She walked among them as if those buried there were only sleeping and whispered hello to friends and relatives, even Grandma Ruth, sliding her finger along the top of the stone as a gentle greeting.

  When she was a young girl, she had come here for her friend Grace’s grandfather’s funeral and wondered what it would be like to speak to these souls now that they had moved on from this life. Was their pain gone as the Bible promised? Every tear wiped away by the hand of God? Or were they only asleep, nestled in their caskets, awaiting a holy touch or a sacred trumpet blast?

  She had imagined lying several feet under the topsoil, nestled inside her own casket in the dark, hearing the footsteps of friends and loved ones overhead, hearing their whispered prayers, their questions and confessions. Of course, Dat said all of those buried here were not really in this place because their souls had moved on. And yet…still…even now, she wondered.