Dark Spirit

By Lauren Ritz

Spirit can be dangerous, and Inga Tarsi wants no part of it. Raised in the slums as the daughter of an illegal drug designer, she knows the dark side of Spirit more than the bright. Trapped by her history, she suppresses her skills and uses them only for simple healings on her friends.

But someone has learned her secret; someone who sees no need to hold back—even against family.

Why can't anything dealing with Spirit be simple?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lauren Ritz
• Release date: Dec 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311083531

Lauren Ritz

Lauren Ritz was born in Utah and continues to reside there, somewhat to the chagrin of those who know her well. She is commonly known as a walking insane asylum (just ask her) and a compulsive gardener.She began writing at the age of six with a “journal entry” about aliens flying through her bedroom window and landing on her wall. She tried to start earlier, but was handicapped by the fact that she couldn't draw well enough.She lives in Utah with bats in her attic, a cat named Darth Vader and too many books to count. She is a wannabe herbalist, but the herbs stay outside for the most part. Most of her plants are domesticated varieties and housebroken.No, she does not talk to the plants, but they talk to her. Luckily she's hard of listening.Writing is her love and her lifelong obsession, taking up the majority of her time when she isn't involved in other less compelling interests.

Book preview

Dark Spirit

Lauren Ritz

Copyright 2013 by Lauren Ritz

Smashwords Edition

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Other titles available from Lauren Ritz

Spirit

Without A Voice

Content statement:

Intended audience: Adult

Profanity: None

Sexual content: Mild

Violence: Mild to moderate (no blood), family conflict

Religion: None

Table of Contents

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

Epilogue

Other Stuff

Chapter One

Inga Tarsi kept her eyes far away from the odd couple as they left the restaurant, her spirit eyes open and watching them. Her hands moved automatically, clearing the dishes from the table.

The man had a spirit shield, the woman was wide open and practically shoving her emotions down Inga's throat. The man glanced back, met Inga's eyes and nodded before holding the door for his companion. The woman wore the tailored gray suit and the six inch blood red spike heels as if she dressed this way all the time.

Inga shook her head and turned back to her table. She picked up the overly generous tip and rubbed a hand over her arm, smoothing out the darkness of the bruises on her spirit before she cleared and wiped the table. She tried not to let resentment affect her that way, but she bruised again as she thought of the way the woman had used her, apparently to make a point for the boyfriend.

She closed her spirit eyes before she walked back into the kitchen and took her purse off the hook, dropping her apron in the same place. She didn't like to see the spirit bruises around the new cook's neck, the spirit slashes on his wrists, so she usually kept her spirit eyes shut around him. The explanation for the throat bruises was simple enough―Don't tell, this is our secret, family business, no one else needs to know. A lot of different variations on that theme, but she wasn't good enough to read the nuances. She'd never wanted spirit and to get the training she needed would be expensive.

Good night, she called, but he didn't respond. He never did.

Two other servers gossiping in a corner looked up and went back to their discussion.

Simon, taking over her position for the evening shift, waved as he walked out into the restaurant. Inga pushed the door open into the alley behind Caliente, leaving the smell of burned peppers behind.

The security sucked. A single streetlight shot a narrow beam of light against the wall a short distance away. It reflected off the frame of an old ten-speed, half buried in trash. Surprising that the scavengers hadn't found it yet. She smelled petroleum, remembered from the motorcycle rally last weekend.

Inga stopped as a shadow moved across the end of the alley, then shook her head and swung her leg over her antique motorcycle. She swore as her thumbprint to the lock-pad did nothing. The electric engine didn't even click.

If she could afford a mechanic she wouldn't have to deal with this all the time. Fixing the ancient motorcycle had certainly given her an education in old fashioned mechanics.

She hunkered down by the bike and peered at what she could see of the wiring in the shadows, then pulled a hand light from her tool kit. She flicked on the little light and swore more creatively. Black sludge dripped across the engine.

Her fists clenched. She wanted to pound Hansin's face for this. She'd need to leave the bike here and come in early tomorrow to take a closer look. In spite of Caliente's horrible security the neighborhood was relatively secure―even if the bike hadn't been lost in the shadows of the dark alley she could mostly count on it being here when she got back.

Not that an antique motorcycle was a collector's item―there would be no reason to steal it. Since all vehicles used on roads had to be converted to electric, any vintage bike on the road was automatically considered altered from the original. On the track was a different matter, and the bikes used there were brought to the rallies in their own trailers and treated like celebrities.

She could inhale exhaust fumes forever. Inga grinned as she straightened, remembering the weekend rally. She'd actually gotten into the pit a little indirectly―all right, illegally―and been able to look over the shoulder of the mechanic as he worked on the bikes.

Inga shifted the strap of her purse over her head and started jogging.

* * *

If it had been a normal night she would have headed for her own apartment first, to change into something more comfortable before confronting the inevitable.

She paused for a moment where her brother's street met Hamilton, identified the unmarked police car a block down and shook her head. Under surveillance again. Idiot. Would Hansin ever be able to stay out of trouble? And this time they had actual people watching the apartment, so maybe the police had learned their lesson about using droids against Hansin.

Inga moved more slowly, dropping to a walk before she reached the front door. There she hesitated, steeling herself against the inevitable conflict.

The old family restaurant on the first floor of the three story townhouse was dark and silent, as it had been for years. She ran her fingers over the faux wood of the tables and slipped into the back. A light over one of the stoves told her that someone had been cooking, but the big fans had cleared the smell except for the faint scent of garlic and ginger.

The latched security grille at the bottom of the staircase was an innovation since her brother had moved their parents in here. The stairs squeaked as she climbed, every step harder than the last. Even with their father several weeks dead, it was hard to come to this place.

Against Hansin's objections, Mama had given Inga the codes to both the grille and the door. Inga shoved the door open, spun and locked it before turning to meet her brother's glare. How dare you get me involved in your stupidity? Inga snarled, not letting him speak first. Someone ruined my bike!

The family apartment seemed smaller and more cramped each time she came here. Like deliberately walking into a prison.

Hansin lounged across the long couch, glaring. I didn't get you involved in anything. His sneer could have been mistaken for a smile by anyone who didn't know him. I had nothing to do with it.

One of your enemies found out I was your sister! Isn't that the way it always goes? If you can't get at the main target, find someone peripheral?

Inga. Her mother's tired voice might as well have been a shouted accusation. Why do you make this scene? Your brother has said he is not responsible. Birgit stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her hands covered in flour. She'd spent a lot of time baking, cooking, cleaning in the last weeks, as if to make up for the times her husband had accused her of neglecting those things. She absently wiped her hands and came forward, perching uneasily on the edge of a chair.

Inga refused to shout at her mother. Not getting me involved and not being responsible are two very different things. She kept her voice level as she spoke, then turned back to her brother. You call them off. Whatever you've done, I have no part in it.

His dark eyes crinkled, although he chose not to taunt her with a smile. Should I send one of my people to fix your bike? One eyebrow rose. His smooth, polite tone was a warning.

Their mother smiled at this sign of reconciliation, although her eyes darted warily between her children.

Inga kept the snarl inside. No! I'll take care of my bike myself, but you make sure they know I'm not your lapdog! Just tell them we hate each other, that'll be enough.

Hansin's spirit darkened in temper, though whether at her or those using her to get to him was meaningless at the moment. This last attack was a warning, just like the others.

You do not hate each other. They both turned in ingrained deference at their mother's tired words. You sometimes do not understand. Inga, your brother has said he is not responsible.

Hansin smiled faintly and spoke in an oddly accented voice, deliberately duplicating the tones and the words of their dead father. If you would get rid of the bike and buy something more reasonable you would not have to be constantly trying to get me to fix it for you. As if Hansin knew anything about bikes.

Mama flinched, her shoulders hunching as if she thought her husband had come back from the dead.

Inga stiffened. Getting rid of the bike wouldn't solve the problems of cut wires and missing batteries and this time, she emphasized the words, glaring at Hansin, something that smells like tar poured all over the engine block!

She saw his eyes tighten, although their mother would refuse to see it.

Their dead father's old arguments poured over her like that tar, thick and black and hot. Hansin wanted her where he could control her.

If you would move in with us, Hansin continued, and Inga cut through the air with her hand.

And that's my cue to leave. I will never move into your house, and you can stop hounding me on it! She jerked the door open and moved back the few steps to drop a kiss on her mother's cheek. The older woman looked tired, ill. Hansin knew his responsibilities to his parents, right enough. If that was why he moved their parents in after they lost their house, Inga would be very surprised.

She held her mother's hand for a moment, smoothed away the spirit bruises on the fingers―similar bruises would happen to the physical body if the fingers were broken. Memories, most likely. That had been happening more often over the last weeks, as Birgit adjusted to her husband's abrupt death.

Goodbye, Mama. I'll see you tomorrow. She threw another angry glance at her brother and slammed the door behind her. She felt lighter going down the narrow stairs. Duty done, she could relax for the night. She closed the security grille behind her, heard the faint click as the lock engaged.

Inga stopped, screamed silently when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Hansin always walked as if he was dancing, when she could hear his steps at all. He didn't sound angry but no more was he trying to sneak up on her.

She spun, putting her back to one of the old metal counters, glaring as the gate slid aside and her brother closed it behind him.

They watched each other across the length of the restaurant kitchen. Inga had spent her childhood here, cleaning up behind the scenes until she was old enough to serve out front. Her brother knew little about what she'd done since she left her father's house.

He walked across the big room until they faced each other, close enough to spit.

I don't appreciate you coming here and disturbing her, he began.

Inga didn't let him get any further. She punched him. Well I don't appreciate you using our mother as a front. He sprawled backward on the dusty floor, staring up at her in a species of shock.

You never objected to the money when we were growing up. It came from the same source, little sister. He rubbed his jaw, moved it from side to side. That's quite a hook. He got to his feet, watching her in a way that made her very nervous. She took a step back, set herself. He'd beaten her up often enough as a child that she'd vowed never again when she started her martial arts training.