Devil's Lullaby: Ringer's Masquerade Series, #1

By Sarah J. Pepper

Sebastian's world is laced with inconvenient truths; mine is saturated with sweet, beautiful lies. He promises me nothing of a happy ending. Even so, the demonic spawn with an angelic voice derails my only reason for existence, but still I can’t tear my gaze away from him. His haunting stare penetrates my very being, revealing my secrets, fears, and desires. My name rolls off his tongue, tempting me to take exactly what I hungered for. Him. My curiosity will certainly be my undoing—but then again, death is inevitable….For he reveals the Ringer's most guarded secrets—secrets they kill to keep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah J. Pepper
• Release date: Jul 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781524271077

Sarah J. Pepper

Sarah J. Pepper specializes in dark, paranormal romance - think "happy ever after" but with a twisted, dark chocolate center. Real-life romance isn't only filled with hugs, kisses, bunnies, and rainbows. True-love can be more thoroughly described in times of darkness and tribulation. It's in those harsh moments where you see what a person is truly capable of - both the good and bad. Sometimes prince-charming isn't always on time, and the glass slipper is a little snug. However, it doesn't mean Charming is not Mr. Right, and who says every shoe is the perfect fit? Get a glimpse inside her head at www.sarahjpepper.com

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Preface

In the darkest hours of my life the demonic spawn whispered the juiciest lie, tempting me to join him. My name rolled off his lips as if it was the basis for every lullaby sung, the motive for any sonata written, and the very reason a desperate man serenaded his muse. I caught my breath as he closed the gap between us, but he hesitated to embrace me. The memory of his fingertips as they caressed my cheek, and wiped my tears away nearly drove me into his arms. However, he promised me nothing of a happy ending. Our fate was foretold long before we breathed life into these bodies. I loathed that my heart craved him like a soul’s addiction yearning for life.

As a pawn in his game where the rules constantly changed, I fought him—yet the outcome was still the same. The same spawn who nearly killed me when I was two now commanded my will. Studying me relentlessly for years, he knew what I couldn’t live without and thus gave me a choice. In one hand he held the truth—accompanied by agony, ecstasy, and his enslaving kiss. And in the other...my naïve death, my life’s purpose, and lies—sweet, beautiful, carefree lies.

The dark shadows of his soulless gaze beckoned me closer...Come to me.

Losing myself in his midnight blue eyes, I wanted nothing more than to believe he could protect me from the deception that engulfed me. I gave myself up to him, sliding my hands up his chest. I ached for a taste of his kiss. He pulled me against his magnificent body. When his lips grazed mine our worlds collided to form one of our own.

Chapter One: Progenitors vs. Spawns

I was told I wouldn't live past my fifth birthday. I'd known this all my life—all four years of it. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t upset about the circumstances that brought about my existence, nor the reason why my body would be disassembled on my next birthday. Rather, I was curious...but then again that’s exactly what killed the cat. 

An endless array of health screens: sugar levels, cardiac rhythms, skin palpations, oxygen capacity, and whatever else my doctors thought up robbed me of all of my days. They were a bit obsessed with procedures to make sure my physical health was optimal, and that my lungs were in tiptop shape as my night nurse, Darius phrased it. Whenever the Ringers performed a lung analysis I knew my day would be spent under their microscope. I didn’t know why the organ that breathed life into my body was of such concern for them, but it didn’t really matter anyway. If they wanted any more information about that particular body part they would literally have to cut it out of my chest—and, I wouldn’t have put it past them.

The procedure to complete an updated health physical ended in yet another drab, gray, windowless room. Like all the other test rooms filled with computer monitors or other hospital equipment, that one was just about the size of my bedroom—which was anything but colorless. However, there was a comfort in the rooms that I couldn’t deny. The gray walls kept me safe; they were the constant markers in my life.

Five feet and one inch, Catherine, Brianna said after scanning my thirteen-year-old body. Over the next year I would mature enough to look like any other seventeen or eighteen-year- old. This meant I’d have one—maybe two—more growth spurts.

She scrutinized the results of my physical on the flat computerized pod she insisted was always by her side. No doubt she slept with it. Not that anyone would want to pry it from her grip. Even though Brianna was a petite woman, the nurse was as intimidating as an enraged football player souped up on steroids, another quote from Darius. He once told me that people used to measure height with wooden sticks and weight with a scale—whatever that meant.

You should be ready, Brianna stated. She never mumbled; in fact, she radiated confidence. 'Confidence keeps others clueless of your true emotions,' she used to say.

Statements about my growth were not meant to be commented on. Thus, I couldn't just ask what I was supposed to be ready for. If anything, it was the nurse’s private conversation with herself. I was a nobody—a spawn—nothing but excess body scraps.

Am I almost done? I asked. The desperation leaked out while I sprinted across a treadmill’s mat.

Brianna didn't need to open her mouth. Her glare said it all: Stress tests measure heart efficiency as well as oxygen absorption. Utter one word about quitting again—I dare you.

Scowls were in essence Brianna's way to hug me; to show her affection. While her glare could scare the breath from others; the ones she gave me were laced with hidden love and affection. I was the only person in the world immune to her death glare; she cared for me, and I knew it. That's what I convinced myself of a couple of years ago in order to pass any amount of time in the same room with the woman. She masked her true feelings. Why she insisted to convey the opposite of what she felt was beyond me.

Dropping my gaze—my bona fide way to apologize—I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. I hoped my nurse didn’t notice my struggle to keep a grin off my face when the belt slowed a few moments later. She glanced down to my pod and waited for the analysis of my stress test to pop on the screen. She had about as much patience as someone would have after chugging a laxative only to discover the bathroom was out of order.

As much as I detested the tests the Ringer put me through I swallowed my complaints; I knew it was all for my progenitor’s welfare. I would do anything for her—anything. It might have been the effect of some drug Brianna gave me, but I loved my progenitor—even though I’d been told I would never meet her. I saw her face in the mirror; her jade colored eyes blinked back at me. I saw her soul—her life—through my eyes. I felt her impulses beat in my blood; I knew the buried rage in her heart; and her desire for a new life—a life where choices weren’t made for her; and decisions weren’t based on tests, physicals, and medication. My progenitor waited for a life in which she could do whatever she wanted. For that very reason—I couldn’t wait to die.

Chapter Two: Clicks

Time: an abstract creation mankind enforced upon itself. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, and months held no place in my life. I barely knew letters from numbers. Twelve was the highest number I ever cared to count up to. Besides, it only took five years for spawns to reach maturity—compliments of growth hormones. If all went as the Ringer’s planned my body would be given to my progenitor after that. Five years total—and I was down to the last one.

Your behavioral coach is off today, Brianna stated while she placed a few probes on my chest with precision. 

Since she could simply scan my body and the data would trickle into my pod, I was curious about what the chest probes measured. I once made the mistake to ask her for an explanation—never again. My head hurt just listening to her rattle off all the possible diseases, viruses, and organ failures they were meant to detect. Since then, I exercised patience, and swallowed my morning medication. The little white pills tasted like dirt and vinegar that was coated with a powder that could shrivel any tongue; no matter how moist.

Brianna worried about my optimum health, and she would just about give herself a myocardial infarction when the data readout wasn’t up to par. The first time she'd lectured me about the importance of a favorable cardiovascular system I'd thought it was a ridiculous word. It was at the start of my second year after I'd thrown a rare tantrum when I had to run on the forsaken treadmill.

It's when your heart has a severe Charley Horse that could end your life prematurely, Brianna stated all those years ago.

Looking about as affectionate as a starved bear, she had knelt down on the cold white tile next to me. She leaned close as if to wrap her arms around me. But then hesitated—and just let her hands fall into her lap next to my pod. I looked into her yellow-brown eyes and could have sworn a tear formed, only to be replaced by a hardened scowl. That was the moment I'd known what her glare actually meant: a heartfelt, warm hug.

I remember her reaction as if it was burned into my memory. She shook her dull, shoulder-length, blonde hair from her face and sighed; as if I'd intentionally annoyed her. If you act like the mature eight-year-old I know you can be I'll see what I can do about giving you a gift.

At the time, I had just started my second year of life. Without the aid of the growth hormone medication I wouldn't have looked like the eight-year-old I was. I had complied even though I didn't have the faintest idea of what a gift meant. The next morning, I'd awoke to find a brush set, three color tubes, and paper placed with care at the foot of my bed. Although Brianna never mentioned it, I'd known this must be what a gift was. My heart had raced with excitement; which in turn made me concerned that I suffered from a myocardial infarction.

Did you hear me? The nurse’s question snapped me out of my stupor. She clenched my pod in her hand tight enough to turn her knuckles white. Are you experiencing a poor health experience, Catherine?

Where will I be going next? I replied, politely ignoring her question. A poor health experience equaled more examinations and tests. 

Your week is going to change a bit. Get dressed and go to the dining hall for breakfast, she stated as she peeled the probes from my chest without further explanation.

***

Spawns formed a line in the Ringer’s dining hall. They ranged from those still young in development, to those who had matured into their teenage years.  A handful of the older spawns had their hair grown out longer than a finger length; the rest were forced to wear theirs cut short. Only those whose progenitors needed proof of healthy roots were required to grow their locks longer—myself included.

Without thought, I scanned the room. Never knowing when I would see him next—since the Ringers would vary our schedules—I found that I searched every gray room I occupied; I held my breath, and hoped he would be there too.

James’ progenitor must have been rather built to necessitate his spawn to be so gargantuan. He towered over all the others by a solid foot, and had at least fifty pounds on the other four-year-olds. His face was symmetrical and flawless—signs of good genetics. Hard masculine features dominated the baby fat that had all but melted away. Most of his fellow spawns described him as a specimen of absolute magnificence; I couldn’t disagree.

James was the perfect human—both in the physical and psychological sense. He told me it was why the Ringer interrogated him often on potential improvements in spawn behavior, but that never bothered him. It was one more thing he could do for his progenitor’s benefit. He'd never met his progenitor either, but that didn’t mean James wouldn’t do anything for him. I once asked Brianna what I could do to help out the behavioral unit like James. She laughed, but refused to entertain my idea to ever assist that unit.

Even though I worshiped that about him, it wasn’t the only reason the flawless chiseled spawn stood out—he was beautiful. Hazel gems peeked out from under wavy blond hair that fell just below his brow. His eyes were the windows to his soul—that was of course if he even had a soul; a topic that was still up for debate.

If I was Brianna, I would have a permanent frown tattooed on my face every time I glanced his way to conceal my true feelings. Before the incident I tended to be indifferent to James; though I sometimes had to wipe away the bit of drool that would form on impulse when he smiled at me. Of course, he was always spectacular in the heart-stopping sense of the word, but I wasn't even in his league. That was before—before the world brought us together by chance, and he opened my eyes. Before James showed me a world I never knew—a world of purpose.

When his eyes met mine I smiled brighter than I ever intended. Countless days ago the staff decided we had become too emotionally involved with each other. In an effort to hide our true feelings we agreed to keep up a façade of mere friendship. Compared to James, I acted like the giddy four year-old I in fact was; instead of the maturing teenager I was becoming. He concealed his emotions with ease, while I broadcasted mine. 

Scarlet, James mumbled, nodding at my ever-growing hair, my new favorite color.

I shrugged. I was one of the few spawns permitted to grow hair, and it was one reason that the others gawked at me. I also knew that I stood out because I was next to him; that reason was my own fault.

Compliments of the drug smorgasbord Brianna gives me. They taste like burnt salt, I muttered, and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. My cheeks warmed when he winked my way. It was all I could do to remember to breathe. What did someone like him see in me?

The shed, James whispered, seven clicks?

He glanced to my left hand. If I hadn’t watched him with such intensity I might have missed it.

I chipped an indigo paint smudge off my thumbnail and muttered, My schedule changed.

Wishing that the cameras didn't monitor our every movement, I plastered on my best blank stare. We continued through the lunch line in silence as the culinary students served us. They were dressed in white scrubs, and wore hairnets over their hair. A girl who looked to be in her late teens handed my tray to me. Before I looked down to see what I’d been served her gaze caught my mine. Despair filled her eyes. My empty stare was quick to vanish when I noticed the three freckles curving around her right eye. I recognized her from somewhere. But before I could say a word she glanced up at the ceiling. A camera rotated our way, and I realized I held up the line.

My love/hate relationship with the cameras waged its never-ending battle within me. They kept me safe, but stripped me of privacy. At the start of our third year, when we first began to sneak away together to the shed, James had asked my opinion of being constantly monitored.

I hesitated. Knowing I would be in solitary confinement if they found out what I learned from James; it was still a chance I wanted to take. I knew the routine of the cameras and how to get around a few of them, but to be so alone terrified me beyond words.

The only escape from my gray world was when I met him in the shed. Gray walls; children and their nurses; teenagers who stared straight ahead; nutritional based food; and endless examinations—that was my life; my routine was dominated by the pod always clutched by the Ringers. The hospital protected us, and the cameras ensured our safety—mine and my progenitor's. She needed me to be protected; her life depended on me.

Watch where you’re bloody going, Cat.

The demonic voice came from behind me. The spawn had failed to steal my life a couple of years ago, and I knew I would punch my own ticket to hell if I let him get close enough to try again. How someone could sound so angelic—yet be so outright vindictive—was the biggest mystery in my universe.

Blinking out of my daydream, I realized that I had nearly walked right into the silverware table. I snatched up a napkin and fork at the end of the counter and bee-lined to the table where James sat before Sebastian could utter another word. I felt his gaze follow me through the crowd. I hated that his fixation on me never faltered; even though I refused to give him any attention whatsoever.

Which shift? James asked, in reference to my change in schedule. Then, he struck up a conversation with another blond-haired spawn next to him about how to extend muscular endurance.

His name was Wyatt—I thought. I'd never had the nerve to talk to him directly. His dull hair was short like all the others, which made me second-guess my first assumption that I knew him at all. It didn’t shimmer in the light like others; it engulfed the light instead of reflecting it. Sitting next to James, he appeared small. But I knew his nurse wouldn't allow him to be in poor physical condition. He was unremarkable in almost every way—except his icy blue glare.

Yep, I recalled him now. Not the biggest fan of being gawked at.

I glanced down at my plate for the first time. Being entirely too consumed in my thoughts, I hadn't noticed what I had been served by the culinary students. It was a vitamin-enriched egg bake; my favorite when I drowned it in ketchup—if I had enough nutritional points. That lone thought disconcerted me since I didn't know how many points I needed to save up; or how many I had to begin with. However, today was my lucky day.

Next to my napkin, a couple of red packets with letters scribbled on them shone in the florescent light. I recognized the letters, but their combination mattered little to me. The obsession people had to manipulate the alphabet for their personal endeavor was as absurd as time measurement. It wasn't until I spread the condiment on my meal that I replied to the hazel-eyed wonder who chatted up a storm with Wyatt about ways to prevent muscular fatigue.

Clueless.

As soon as you know..." he uttered. His gaze no longer looked carefree; it demanded me—as if he was starved.

He looked as if he would reprimand me if I dared to disobey. I forgot how to swallow—milk dripped down my chin.

I had to admit he commanded my will. But, I didn't care enough to protest. Why he was attracted to me was a phenomenon in itself, and I wasn’t going to jeopardize that. I wouldn't risk his friendship simply because I forgot to inform him of my routine. I remembered the napkin on my tray, and I dabbed at my chin.

Without even a blink his face lit up. His smile could stop even Brianna's heart. Down to four months, he said, as if it were the most wonderful news.

You've been moved up, I said softly and then became painfully aware that when I'd dabbed my chin with my only napkin I had knocked over my glass of milk; and it now soaked into my lap. Wyatt had the courtesy not to stare—maybe since he hated it himself—but, the rest of the dining hall didn’t have enough manners.

Throughout the rest of the lunch neither of us spoke directly to each other, which suited me just fine since I looked as if I had messed myself. I glanced at James. His purpose—his life—was nearly complete, while I was left with a few ketchup packets and soggy pants.

***

After lunch, I showered and changed into a new set of royal-blue scrubs. The color indicated the phase of my growth. Age didn't matter for us spawns since we were grown to maturity in five years. But, it appeared that the color-code helped the Ringer staff keep us separated into proper groups for comparison and analysis: green for spawns less than a year old; yellow for those younger than two years and red for older; purple for three years; and blue for four. A few spawns wandered around in black scrubs, but they were no longer part of the Ringer's pride and joy collection. Rumors that their progenitors died floated from mouth to mouth, but no spawn in fact knew why the black spawns were singled out.

Behavioral issues—black listed spawns get their attire because they break the rules. Brianna had snapped after the incident with James and I became obvious last year. "So I'd suggest you listen to me, and stay as far away from that spawn as possible."

I was confused as to why Brianna seemed to hold a personal grudge against James. He was the perfect spawn; and she should have been pleased that I spent time with someone who might have a positive influence on me. Shuddering at the guarded memory, I changed my focus to the day at hand.

A clock card had been placed with care on my bed. No letters or numbers were written on the thin paper. The Ringer staff found it pointless to teach us things like numbers; hence, they assumed we weren't able to decipher time. We didn't need developed frontal lobes; we only needed to worry about our optimal health. Clock cards were our form of communication with the staff; I determined Brianna would return at the first click when I compared the hands on the time card to the ones on my actual clock.

I walked over to my only window, stood on my tiptoes, and peered out; a habit formed in my first couple of years when I couldn’t see above the windowsill. I allowed my mind to drift freely as I looked at nothing in particular. The clock passed the first click; I wondered what had held up Brianna. For the next few clicks, all I could think of was how utterly perfect James’ smile was when he lit up at breakfast; and how so unhandy my daydreams had become. I thought that I daydreamed so much during the day because I only saw nightmares in my sleep. Darius gave me medication so they wouldn't haunt me, but the pills seemed to trap me in my hellish imagination instead. Regardless, my nightmares didn't matter. My progenitor needed my body—not my brain.

The soft sound from my bedroom door as it shut startled me back to reality, and I jumped slightly. Brianna didn't get the best of me often, but at that moment my thoughts were scattered as I thought of the woman's voice from my last dream.

When I turned around no one was there. All that met my gaze was my single bed dressed with white linen; a violet dresser between the bed and outside door; the entrance to my bathroom; a lime-green drawing board; and a wooden chair placed next to the window. I thought I must have lost my mind.

Then, it occurred to me that this could be a mental experiment my nurse decided to put me through. I opened the door and stepped into the hall, still expecting there to be someone—anyone—on the other side. All that I saw to my left was the hallway; with its endless closed gray doors that led up to the white doors of the dining hall with the cameras that monitored its entrance. To my right were more gray doors leading up to locked black doors—doors I had never walked through.

Shaking my head, I slipped back into my room. When I shut the door I heard a soft jingle resonate. I looked down and gasped. Brianna would have my head if it weren’t her job to keep me alive.

Chapter Three: Word Play

Dreams plagued me. Ever since I could recall I had awoke in cold sweats as the screams died on my lips. When I was younger—two years old, maybe three—someone from the Ringer staff would storm into my bedroom and demand to know what caused the poor health experience that made me scream bloody murder. Unable to explain my dreams, I half-expected to find black scrubs in my closet every morning.

There was a streak where