The Redeeming Read online

  You’re not bleeding anymore, Adamm Cochran. Stand up, man…and talk to me.

  That commanding voice had his back rising. Adamm didn’t fucking listen to anybody.

  That is the problem, man…you stopped listening to those around you a long time ago. Made some very, very bad choices. I’m disappointed. I had high hopes for you, the man dressed in glowing white said, shaking his head, his black eyes dark and brooding. Somewhere…you made some very bad choices, and didn’t listen to the voices that tried to steer you clear.

  “Who in the hell are you?” Adamm asked, gingerly touching his throat. The flesh was whole, unmarked. “What in the fuck?”

  The man sighed. Your language was always atrocious. If only that was the only thing bad, you wouldn’t be here. But we’ve got a lot of fixing to do with you, and your filthy mouth is the least of my concerns. As to who I am…I am Sansan. Your guardian angel.

  Adamm couldn’t help it. He laughed, he crowed, he snickered until tears were streaming down his face. Finally, he gasped for air and asked, “Is this some kind of illusion? Did Tabby have anything to do with it? Because that bullet to the throat felt awfully real. Only a healer could do something like that.”

  The man blinked. And to their left, a huge image sprang to life, and Adamm felt as though he was in a movie theatre, watching as the film rolled on the wall. Only this was his life—or his death, rather. Paramedics hovered over his body, talking, as a man in dark leather jacket approached, carrying a bag in his hand. His face was grim, tired. And after kneeling by Adamm’s body for a few seconds, the weariness in his expression only grew.

  The man shook his head and reached up, gently closing Adamm’s open eyes. And Adamm felt his touch, felt the impersonal hands that lifted his body and placed it on a stretcher, felt the sheet that covered his face.

  This is very real, Adamm Cochran. And if you want a chance to undo some of the evil you have done…listen up.

  Adamm licked his lips, sitting up slowly and staring at the man in front of him. He looked…ethereal, all glowing clothes, hair and skin…except those eyes. Those eyes were dark and full of pain.

  “What is going on?” Adamm asked, forcing the question out through stiff lips.

  You died. You’ve been dead about ten minutes, on Earth. You had to go bad, didn’t you?

  Adamm’s body started to shake. Dead. If he was dead, then it should just be blackness, he shouldn’t be seeing this man in front of him. Unless…unless…

  Come on, stop being a coward. You are dead, and I am standing before you. There has always been more than just the life you live—you just blew it off. Well, it isn’t darkness I offer you. You have the choice…repentance or torment.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Adamm said stiffly, shaking his head. “They always told me I’d have to pay. But it would be in hell. There was no mention of repentance.”

  Oh yes. And man knows everything there is to know, doesn’t he? the man mocked, folding his face into a mask of fake solemnity. Grow up.

  Adamm jerked, hearing that mocking voice, that dry command. “Would you explain what in the fuck is going on?” he demanded, fear edging in and giving him the comfort of false bravado.

  Watch your language, if you would. As to what is going on? Choices, Adamm. You are making a choice. Do you want hell…or do you want the life you were meant to live? Sansan asked, starting to circle around Adamm, his gaze penetrating.

  “What life? I lived my life the only way that was possible—damn it, if you aren’t happy with it, maybe you should have given me some other choices,” Adamm snarled. He was starting to understand now, though.

  This was real.

  Now, I had nothing to do with it. As to your life, well, we all have the one we are given and you had the same choices we’ve all faced…good or evil…do I serve others? Or do I serve only myself? Sansan replied easily. He started to sit, and Adamm blinked as a soft white chair simply appeared beneath him. You see, that is where you present our problem. You made very, very bad choices. But they weren’t always done to further yourself or your power. In fact, they were rarely for those reasons. You always sought to protect those who had entrusted themselves to you. True evil doesn’t do that. But a person good in heart doesn’t make the choices you’ve made. So we are at an impasse.

  “Who is we?” Adamm demanded.

  We…perhaps I should say I. Most have given up on you. Myself…I haven’t decided. And so I asked for this.

  “This what?”

  A chance to fix what you did wrong. Sansan studied him closely, a tiny smile on his mouth, as though he knew exactly what was running through Adamm’s mind.

  Adamm fought the urge to flinch under that gaze, feeling as though everything in life he had ever done was being measured. And he came up lacking. “I took care of my responsibilities,” he said tightly, swallowing the knot of fear that had formed in his throat. “Right or wrong, I did what I thought was best.”

  No…you did what came easiest. Those choices weren’t always motivated by selfish desires, but they were still bad choices. However, this isn’t about responsibility, it’s about heart. You shouldn’t have one. So why do I look at you and still see one? Sansan asked, the voice Adamm heard speaking inside his head dropping to a mere whisper. Why should you care if others around you die? True evil looks only after itself. You look after others.

  “Can we just get this over with?” Adamm asked in a dull monotone. “I don’t know what in the hell you want, but I’d rather not sit here and discuss my lacks of morals all day.”

  Judgment, my friend. We all must face judgment for our sins. But we can’t quite put you in the hole you were supposed to go in. You don’t fit. This leads me to believe that if you had realized how much pain you were causing those around you, and complete strangers, you wouldn’t have walked down the road you walked.

  Adamm rose, rubbing one damp palm against the other, then lifted his hands and stared at them. You still get that cold sweat when you’re dead? he wondered. He slid his hands in his pockets, fisting them to keep from fidgeting any more. With a scowl, he asked, “So what are you planning on doing? Turning back time?”

  Sansan smiled politely. Not exactly…although you will have the chance to right the wrongs you have done unto others in the past. If you are successful in your quest, then perhaps we will not have to close our eyes as we turn you over to…them.

  “Them who?” Adamm asked warily, his eyes jumping around as the brilliant light from above faded, replaced by an oppressive darkness. A cold wind ripped through the air, coming from nowhere. And in midair, a door opened, like the doors of a storm cellar, opening so that they were looking down into a dark pit.

  The air stank, foul and putrid, turning Adamm’s stomach. And he heard the tormented moans of the damned. “What is that place?” he asked as something dark and menacing floated by the door, staring at Adamm with greedy eyes. In its arms, the thing held a misty form, one that opened her mouth and screamed as she stared at Adamm.

  That is hell, Sansan said quietly, his eyes darkening with pain as he stared into the pit. Those are the souls who haven’t wanted to be saved, who haven’t cared for anything beyond themselves.

  His head was moving back and forth, and he distantly heard himself whisper, “No, that’s not real.”

  Sansan sighed. It is all too real…that is where you will be if you do not learn the error of your ways.

  A tension drained from Adamm’s shoulders. A chance…he had a chance.

  Yes. A chance. But you only have two months.

  And before Adamm could even question that, he felt some outside force shoving at his body, pushing, shoving, until he fell. Or part of him did, because he could still see up, see an ephemeral image of his body leaning over, trying to grasp his hand as he fell.

  ***

  Shit!

  The soft hum of machinery, a beeping of some sort and the smell of antiseptic flooded his senses. Damn it, what in the hell had happened? Then he
remembered…the gun shot, the hot flood of his blood as it pumped from him. Fuck…must be in a hospital. Made sense, the noise of machinery, life support probably. He would need a hell of a lot of support, considering how much blood he suspected he had lost.

  The bastards that had shot him had been from a rival gang, led by a witch who made Adamm look nice. And that took a lot. Because nice was one thing he was not.

  The bad thing about squaring off with others like himself—they knew his weaknesses. Knew that he had a few, not many, but a few…and Dominiqua had known how to exploit them. The bullets hadn’t been regular bullets, but hollow tipped, filled with mullein, onion and clover. Herbs that had long been known to repel sorcery, witches and evil. And Adamm was known for all three. Damn it. Should have killed that bitch when I had the chance.

  But choking the life out of her after he had just gotten done doing the nasty with her all night hadn’t appealed to him. Maybe he was getting soft. That might explain why he had tired of her…the rage, anger and malice he had sensed rolling from her had quickly sickened him.

  Just not soon enough to keep him from fucking her.

  He forced his lids to open, staring at the white ceiling overhead. As he took account, he decided he was good and fucked up. There was a mask on his face, feeding oxygen in, drying the hell out of his mouth. A tube in his nose, patches all over his chest. He shifted his head, amazed that his neck wasn’t hurting like wildfire.

  With hands that shook from weakness, Adamm reached up, probing his nose gingerly. Then he stopped.

  Something felt wrong.

  He studied his hands. Something looked wrong. What in the hell?

  His hands didn’t look right. They were…different. Adamm had always been a pale son of a bitch, burning easily in the summer sun. His hair, so light a blond it looked almost white, had been worn brutally short, and his body was a big, bulky form he cared for religiously. He could have passed for a pro wrestler, with his bulk and size, standing at six feet nine, unable to buy a damned thing off the rack. Huge hands…

  But the hands he was staring at were just average size. Pale, but not the kind of pale one got just from avoiding the daylight, not an unhealthy pallor, which Adamm had possessed. This was a smooth, clear pale, the skin he was looking at, and his hands—wide palmed, long narrow fingers. They looked like the hands of…somebody kinder. Everything about Adamm had been near brutal. From his magic, to his manner, to his size.

  “Okay,” he whispered, his voice nearly soundless behind the mask. His throat was so damned dry it hurt and speaking was like rubbing ground-up glass into an open wound. “What in the hell is going on?”

  Forgotten already? a soft, melodic voice murmured to him.

  Whipping his head around, Adamm searched for the voice. Familiar…it evoked a deep sense of fear. But he couldn’t see anybody. With a sigh, he rolled his head to the side, wondering if he had lost his mind.

  Most likely, because now he was seeing a man in the reflective surface on the metal rails on his bed. But when he turned his head to look for the man himself, he wasn’t there.

  Damn it, he knew this man…Sansan…

  Like a movie in fast-forward, he was back in the bright place, surrounded by the white light, as Sansan spoke to him of his evils.

  Are you ready? Sansan asked him now. You’ve got so much making up to do…let’s start at the beginning.

  And Adamm felt himself being sucked back inside the darkness of sleep, only he wasn’t asleep. He was being forced into his own past, back to all the places in his life where he had been given an opportunity to do something different. Only he had chosen the road that had been familiar, known to him. Even though part of him hated himself, and every bad choice he had made.

  Yes…that is the part I sensed within—that is why I begged for this one last chance. Sansan was by his side now, and they were standing outside, staring through a window…at the movie of Adamm’s life.

  Age Fifteen

  Lyssa was going to be the death of him. If it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t be standing here. If it wasn’t for her, he wouldn’t still be living in Detroit, with its frozen bitch winters. If it wasn’t for her, he might be able to get more than a few hours sleep a night.

  Worrying about her, trying to keep them both fed and safe, he was going nuts. Something had to give.

  If he didn’t get them into someplace where she could get a decent night’s sleep, get clean…and get clean clothes, all the shit needed to convince the damned welfare people that she had a home, a mother, a family. She’d be taken away if they knew the two of them were on their own.

  Hell, they’d been on their own for the past three years. He had been doing okay, staying in the basement of a friend’s house. The mom hadn’t given a damn, as long as Adamm brought home money for her, helping feed her ongoing love of the not-so-legal drugs. Coke, meth, Exotica…you name it, she wanted it. But then she had died of an overdose, and the stepdad started in on them. Noticing Lyssa.

  That had been six months ago. They’d had a few months of peace but then, one night, Adamm had gotten home earlier than expected. He had found the stepdad standing in the doorway of the room the siblings shared. Adamm hadn’t touched him—not that night. He’d waited until Lyssa was at school. When Lyssa was gone, that was when he’d gone after the man. Big and strong for his age, he had beaten the sick fuck into unconsciousness.

  They never went back to that house. Ever since then, it had been an ongoing contest to outwit the state officials.

  He didn’t want Lyssa dropping out of school like he had done. He wanted better for her. More for her.

  They had been on their own for three years, ever since their pathetic excuse for a mom had taken off with a boyfriend. He hadn’t had much choice but to quit. When the new school year started, he never went back. He’d spend his days scrounging up money to take care of himself and his sister. The first few months, he’d just stolen what he could, sell it and use that money to pay for what they needed. Later on, he’d gotten a fake ID and worked where he could.

  It had been almost easy—he had always looked older than he was. And he had used sleight of hand, thievery and the magic he had been born with to do whatever needed doing.

  But now the school officials were getting suspicious. Lyssa didn’t always make it to school on time, and she was often too damned dirty. They were no longer buying the forged notes Adamm sent in and he knew it was just a matter of time.

  This was the last thing he could think of.

  And it had to work.

  You could just go to the damned welfare fuckers, part of him argued. He stood outside the house on South Third Street and licked his lips. The metallic taste of fear was heavy in his mouth. They’d take care of her. And you, too. A few years, you’d be done, and you’d have a diploma. Lyssa would be warm, clean…

  No. He wasn’t letting strangers take his sister. And he knew what he looked like. Not too many foster parents would risk taking in somebody who looked as mean as he did.

  “You going in there or what?” a low voice asked from behind him.

  He turned, staring at the cute little brunette in front of him. Her big dark eyes studied him curiously. She cocked a brow at him. “They aren’t very nice people,” she told him, lifting one bare shoulder. The skimpy bikini top she wore with a pair of shorts revealed a hot little body and Adamm felt his heart kick up a notch.

  “Then how come you’re here?” he asked.

  A smile, sad, he thought, curved up her lips. “I live here.” She looked him over from head to toe, and Adamm got the impression that she saw beneath the surface all too well. “You’re looking for Jack, aren’t you?”

  Jack McGregor was definitely the man he was there to see. It was no secret who lived there. Still, Adamm curled his lip at her. “That’s my business, not yours.”

  “You really sure you want to talk to him?” she asked, acting like she hadn’t heard him speak.

  No. He wasn’t sure—well, act
ually, he was sure—he was damned sure he didn’t want to talk to Jack McGregor, but he was out of choices.

  No. You’ve got other choices. You just don’t like them.

  It all added up to the same thing as far as he was concerned. The other choices he had didn’t leave him any sort of control so they weren’t choices. He stared at the brunette until she sighed.

  “Stubborn,” she murmured.

  The quiet voice inside his head got louder and louder. Stubborn, yes. Maybe even too stubborn—no. No, he wasn’t being stubborn, he was being smart, making the best choice available.

  “Well, head on in. Unless you want to be smart and just walk away.” For a second, her eyes seemed to gleam and then she blinked and they were just pretty, dark brown eyes again. “Getting in there is easy, if you got what it takes. Getting out is damn near impossible.”

  “I don’t need the lecture, thanks.” Adamm fought the urge to look away from those insightful eyes.

  Another sigh slipped past her lips and she shrugged. “Your choice…” She turned her head and stared at the small porch, her mouth a straight, unsmiling line. Angling her chin towards the front door, she said, “You know the way?”

  He knew she wasn’t talking about how to get inside the house. It was a little more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other. It involved two unsmiling characters standing at the front door. “Yeah,” he said, his voice flat and cold. “I know the way.”

  She studied him for a long moment. The warm light in her brown eyes died, fading away and turning her warm gaze cold. Then she turned around and walked away.

  Adamm had no doubts about his own abilities. He had what it took to get through the doors—the ability to fight his way past the lower-level witches acting as bodyguards, alarm and fodder. One of them was dead by the time Adamm was done and although it had left him sick inside, although it had come down to kill or be killed, he’d taken a life and he couldn’t regret it.