Echoes of Harmony

By Miranda Nading

Sometimes, the dead come back.

For seventeen long years, Celia Davenport worked faithfully to honor her inheritance. All who had played a part in the destruction of her family had faced judgment.

All but one.

Celia would destroy everyone Elizabeth cared for, before allowing her the sweet release of death. Dana Mitchell fought her way off the streets of Memphis to build a life she could be proud of. As the Director of the Department of Family Services, she was in a unique position to help other young girls beat the odds.

When a serial killer targets her girls and closes in on her daughter, Dana becomes the primary suspect of a vindictive detective. To stop the slaughter, she must uncover the terrible truth of her family’s past - and face the dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miranda Nading
• Release date: Oct 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386509769

Miranda Nading

Miranda Nading is a multi-genre novelist and lives in Arkansas with her husband, father, and her two Pomchis. When she's not writing, she can be found reading one of her favorite authors, taking care of her orchids, and spending time with her family.

Book preview

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Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave and tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay?

-Mary Shelly, Frankenstein

To Amanda – Ever my light in the dark.

CHAPTER ONE

DEAD LEAVES AND BRANCHES cracked under her feet as she moved off the path and into the old forgotten cemetery. She could almost smell the woman’s fear – thick and rich, waiting to be tasted. The deep shadows of the old church stood silent and still against the starless sky on the horizon, barely visible through winter’s unadorned trees. Silent, but not lonely. A castle still waiting for the knights that had abandoned her.

She knew this place like an old friend. Every tombstone was a wrinkle around eyes that stared into her soul. They watched her as she went about her work, guarded her when she lay down to sleep each night.

Stepping easily around chunks of fallen angels and temples for the long dead, she closed her eyes and inhaled, the soft smells of decaying earth embracing her. The prodigal daughter returned. They had tried to keep her away. Lied to her, imprisoned her, hurt her—but in the end, she had found her way back. Now it was her turn.

A whisper of dry leaves and muffled sobs brought a dark smile to Celia’s lips. There were times when she loved to sit in the stillness around them, watching them fight back their fear. Fear of the final judgment, which sits deep in everyone’s gut, waiting for the little spark to fan the flames.

Some understood that the time had come to pay for their sins and they accepted the heavy price with quiet tears while they begged for forgiveness and mercy. Others fought against the coming darkness, screaming and bucking against their restraints, refusing to acknowledge that greed and perversity had ruled their lives even as the last ounce of life fled into the darkness.

This one, her dark flesh barely visible against the stark headstone where she lay, was the last in a long line of whores and thieves. The key. The piece of the puzzle that would lay it all on Elizabeth’s doorstep. That last and final delicious prize was almost within her reach. So much hard work, so many diligent nights – but God had rewarded her.

Nikkei Thompson finally lay still. The moment Celia had been waiting for. She had let two hours pass without touching the girl further and now it was paying off. She had cultivated the façade of hope, had allowed the girl to delude herself into believing that nothing else was going to happen and that sooner or later, she would be set free.

The sobs had long since stopped, as her panic receded a little further with each minute that left her unmolested. Celia watched from a perch on a nearby tombstone as Nikkei worked her body around to an awkward sitting position; her back propped more solidly against the headstone, her feet and hands bound together behind her thighs.

The oil rag that had been cinched tight around Nikkei’s mouth had come loose and she was working her jaw in hopes of dislodging it. The small sounds she made as she struggled masked Celia’s approach. A sharp, muffled cry escaped the cloth as Celia dropped her battered black bag to the ground next to Nikkei. Her body froze like a stunned animal, until even the rise and fall of her breast was no longer visible.

Celia watched, delighted, as the false hope vanished. She reached into her bag and withdrew the deliciously sharp tool that waited. The silver blade captured and held the light of the moon. She watched the light dance across the surface as she passed it close to the girl’s chest without touching her.

Let her wait, Celia thought. Wait and wonder.

Nikkei released a slow, shaky breath. Celia waited until the girl began to relax again before blowing a feather light breath against the side of her face. Just a soft caress, but enough to make her flinch away and lose her precarious balance. She landed hard on her side and her weight carried her over, digging her face into the soft earth and dead leaves.

Not giving her a chance to recover, Celia grabbed the girl’s shoulder and hauled her on to her back, locking Nikkei’s knees between her own to hold her still. She placed the cold steel of the scalpel to the smooth skin between Nikkei’s large breasts, feeling the familiar thrill as every muscle in the girl’s body clenched and froze, an inhuman mewling escaping the gag in her mouth. With agonizing slowness, and only enough pressure to break through the first couple of layers of skin, she traced a thin red line down the length of Nikkei’s body.

Goose bumps covered the girl’s skin as Celia made her way across the tender flesh of Nikkei’s tight stomach and stopped just short of the thick, dark patch of hair that protected the greatest evil of all. The mewling had become a tortured, high-pitched squeal with every inch the blade traveled. Her body bucked uselessly against the hard packed earth as pain at last broke the girl’s paralysis.

Choking on the oilcloth as she screamed, she twisted and bucked, trying to get away from the knife that cut so effortlessly through her skin. Celia grabbed the girl’s shoulder and held her to the ground. She had learned with the first girl that tying their legs behind them made them so much easier to control, making their struggles useless.

The small hairs on the back of her neck danced across her skin and the blade froze just as it prepared for another pass. Someone was watching her. Piercing eyes drilled into her back, judging and condemning her. For a moment, fear snaked through her belly, but only for a moment. She had nothing to fear. She was doing God’s Work.

Her eyes traveled up from the girl, sliding over the headstone. Harmony Davenport – loving mother, it said, another wicked lie.

She waited. No one busted out of the brush to stop her. Though she could feel their eyes boring into her, she had not heard their approach.

No one could possibly be there. The untended graveyard was choked with fallen limbs and the moldering debris of fall, yet she could feel them, watching and waiting. As she listened to the woods around her, she became convinced she could almost taste a building fear and her own was quickly replaced with anger. A small whimper of pain escaped the girl beneath her. A small rivulet of blood glistened in the light of the moon, as it ran down her side. She forced herself to relax her grip on the scalpel.

A mild breeze drifted in from the north, bringing with it a familiar scent. Moving to her feet, she turned her face to the wind and closed her eyes, taking the air deep into her lungs. Recognition knocked the air from her lungs and her eyes flew open to scan the darkness. It was faint. Musk perfume.

The scent of Elizabeth.

Almost choking on the urge to scream, her mind clung to the one thing that mattered. How? It was too soon. The bitch wouldn’t even know about the church yet. Not until Celia was ready for her to know.

It didn’t make sense, but she could smell her, feel her. She was there, dammit! Her fingers flew to her temple to rub out the deep twinge that gave warning of the headache that was slowly building steam. She stilled her nerves and reminded herself that Dana Elizabeth Mitchell was two hours away, dreaming her fevered dreams of conceit and sin.

Dana.

She hated that name. It made a mockery of their true destinies. The priest had added it to Elizabeth’s name when they had taken her. When they had tried to hide her from Celia. She’d found her anyway. God had shown her the way. Just as he’d shown their mother, so many years ago.

No. She wouldn’t know that the time was coming when she would have to face up to the vengeful shadows of her past, a past that was bearing down on her even now, like a tidal wave searching for land.

Kneeling down next to the pathetic whore, who even now was probably screaming for Elizabeth in the shallows of her fractured brain, Celia longed for the solace of her altar and for the cold edges of the rock floor beneath her feet. Kneading her aching temple, she grabbed Nikkei’s shoulder and ignored her screams. It just couldn’t be helped, not this time. She had to take her time and make it perfect.

She wanted this sinner’s blood to run deep into the earth, to bathe the ancient body of Harmony Davenport like a slow, saturating, rain. But more than that, Nikkei would be the one to show Elizabeth that she stood on the threshold of Judgment. Everything had to be perfect.

The wind whispered through the trees and she could almost hear their voices, crying, begging for mercy. She traced her fingertips over the girl’s lean stomach and could almost feel the seed of corruption that lay hidden within the folds of flesh and muscle. The root of all evil.

Before she could react and bite down, Celia crammed the gag deeper into Nikkei’s mouth. Unable to contain her need any longer, she followed the line she had traced only moments before, but deeper. Slicing through layers of tissue, scraping against bone, she didn’t bother to steady her trembling hand. Screams ripped through the darkness despite the oil rag. Nikkei’s body bucked against the sides of Celia’s legs, her bare knees digging furrows into the grave below her.

Blood, metallic and rich ran in rivers down Nikkei’s dark flesh. The smell was thick and intoxicating, filling her nose with the sweet smell of iron and earth. Pain exploded in Celia’s skull, white and blinding, and she let herself fall into it.

A breath that she had been holding captive burst from her aching lungs into the cold, December air as she spread the bloody folds of Nikkei’s body, revealing the pouch that had led to the destruction of women as God’s Children. It was this that led them to fulfill their wicked desires, leading them into temptation, this, which denounced them to be nothing more than animals.

The body beneath her bucked and heaved against its restraints, but its frantic screams were drowned by the pounding in Celia’s head. Cold night air scorched her lungs and a familiar, comforting heat spread through her body from somewhere deep in her belly. She threw her head and arms back into the air, riding the aftermath of God’s satisfaction in her work until Nikkei’s body slowed its struggles. The blood, which had pumped so fiercely out onto the ground, surrendered its failed attempt and slowed.

Leaning back on her haunches, she stared up into the shrouded night sky and drank deep of the cleansing air until her heart slowed and the blinding pain in her skull eased to a dull, nearly pleasant, throb. And still she sat, enjoying the warmth that had spread to her arms and legs, feeling the warm spray of blood on her face and body chill when brushed by the cool night air.

Digging into her bag, she pulled out a small flashlight and trained it on the girl’s face. Even in death, the girl’s dark, almond complexion was essentially flawless. Although she had scrubbed the girl clean to remove the heathen filth that they seemed to favor, an unnatural ashy tint colored the skin over her delicate cheekbones. Dark, velvety eyes stared up into the nothingness of death as she traced a finger over those graceful bones.

Soon, Elizabeth, she whispered to the dead girl, and rummaged once again in her bag. I’m going to pull your throne out from under you.

Behind Harmony’s headstone sat a pan of icy water, a coarse sponge floating on its surface. Pulling it around the stone along with two towels, she went back to her bag and removed a smaller, green pouch. One by one, she laid the small, plastic make-up cases out and lined them up under the glow of the light.

This time, it had to be perfect. Nikkei Thompson would be the snowball running for hell that would bring Elizabeth to her knees. Then and only then, would she be ripe for the slaughter.

CHAPTER TWO

DANA MITCHELL CHOKED back a scream of terror when the woman standing over Nikkei turned and locked eyes with her. The thicket she had been hiding in grappled for her arms and legs as she shoved her way through, desperate to get to Nikkei. A lucky grab by the fingers of an old oak sent her reeling. Her bare foot caught a root that had partially disengaged itself from the frozen ground, taking her down to her knees.

Digging her fingers into the ground, she shoved herself to her feet like a sprinter after the gun is fired – and had nearly made it off the foot of the bed before sweat-soaked sheets wrapped themselves around her legs and pinned her to the mattress. Feeling the cold sheets clenched in her fists, instead of dead leaves and dirt, helped bring her back down to earth.

Rolling over towards the headboard, she slapped at the light switch on the nightstand, sending last night’s glass of water flying across the room before the world was bathed in blinding white light. The ceiling fan slowly whirred to life, chilling the sweat on her skin. A desperate sound escaped her throat as she fought to get free of the tangled sheets. Something half-sob and half-scream that didn’t sound quite human in the quiet of the room.

It took three tries before she managed to climb to her knees and yank the chain on the fan. Falling back against the headboard, she pulled her old comforter up to her chin and tried to get her breath without having to go for her inhaler. A familiar friend, that old lung-pumper – one she thought she had managed to get rid of. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Her heart beat a mad rhythm of heavy metal rock against her ribs. Even as her eyes adjusted to the light, she searched the corners of the room. There was nothing there – part of her knew that. That small group of gray cells buried deep in her brain, called logic, was screaming it at her. It was the rest of her, which didn’t seem to be listening.

She made a grab for the phone and froze. What in the hell are you going to tell him? Help, Chris, I’ve had the worst fucking nightmare of my life and am in need of some serious Prozac!

That thought sent the panic that had been threatening to swallow her, crashing back down where it belonged. Yeah, she told herself, as she grabbed her Basic’s off the nightstand, I could just hear his answer to that one.

She stuck a flame to the cigarette and drew deep, choking because her lungs still hadn’t opened up, and fought to get her heart rate back down to elevator music levels. Chris grinned at her in her mind’s eye. Would you like me to come and read you a bedtime story, Dana? Make the big bad wolf go away?

Prick.

The sound of her own harsh laughter made her jump and she clamped a hand hard over her mouth. Not the giggles, she thought. Anything but the giggles.

Balancing her cigarette on top of a mountain of ash and cigarette butts, she threw on her housecoat and focused on the one thing she needed more than a shrink – coffee. She groaned as she caught sight of the alarm clock, on her way out the door. Four in the morning and she still had to go to work. Still two more days until Sleep-Till-Noon Saturday. The world just didn’t have enough coffee in it. The fact that her first thought of rescue had been her ex-husband darkened her mood further.

Dana?

She jumped. Room filled with light, nightmare over, and still she jumped.

"You okay, ma chéri?"

Yes, she lied. Should have known better.

The door opened just a crack; Dana could see the tip of Emma’s small, black nose when she peeked into the room. She must have seen remnants of the nightmare in Dana’s face. Within seconds, she swooped in and pulled Dana into her plump arms. Wrapped in the old woman’s warm embrace, the dam broke. But what the hell? This was Emma. She buried her face into her old friend’s neck and cried.

Shhhh, Emma whispered.

Dana had never been able to figure out how someone’s voice could sound like rust and silk at the same time. Emma’s voice could slide over you, through you, and warm you right down to your toes. Mrs. Emma’s Magic, she had always called it. And it was working for her now.

You just had yourself another nightmare, that’s all.

But that wasn’t all. Dana wanted to tell her how real it had been. How different it had been from the others she’d been having over the past couple of months. More than a few times, she’d woken up with the feel of a rope still tightening around her throat.

She’d looked into that woman’s eyes just before she’d sliced Nikkei open like so much meat, and what she saw in those deep pools had terrified her far more than watching Nikkei’s death. There had been something familiar in those eyes. Something she’d seen in the mirror a thousand times. Rage – and something a little deeper. Something she didn’t really want to think about.

Life with Deadre Collins had taught her that everyone had a dark side that lay just beneath the surface. A dark place in their soul that most of the people in the world fought every day to hide. It was the only way to keep from shattering the fragile illusion of sanity. Life on the streets had been bad, but life with her mother had taught her all she needed to know about those hidden evils.

In the eyes of her dream, those safeguards of sanity had been stripped bare. Those eyes had shown nothing but naked, hungry darkness. And for a moment, when the woman had first turned and locked eyes with her, she’d thought they were her own.

How could she explain it all to Emma without sounding as if she’d finally lost that last little marble? Dana wrapped her arms around Emma a little tighter and nuzzled the side of her face against Emma’s leathery cheek. It was then that she caught sight of herself, in the large mirror over the chest-of-drawers. Her fair complexion was flushed a waxy white and her hazel eyes were a little too large. Haunted. Auburn hair that usually brushed her shoulders in gentle waves now clung to her face and neck, soaked with sweat.

Dana shivered and turned her face into Emma’s shoulder, determined to get a grip on her nerves. For a few moments, anyway, her world could consist of Emma’s hearty arms, her soothing voice, and that smell. As far back as Dana could remember Emma had always had that scent to her. Sweet, like roses and lilacs, but for some reason it always brought to mind football-sized magnolias and fresh rain.

And safety.

It had been years since she had been the frightened fifteen-year-old that Mrs. Emma had found hiding in her kitchen at The Home, but sometimes she still felt like that little girl – afraid of failing as a mother; afraid of life in general. But Emma had taught her over those first few months, that the only thing that mattered was that tiny little life growing inside of her. Had that really been eleven years ago? Yes, she supposed it had. That tiny little life had turned into a fairly bright – if entirely way too energetic – young lady with dreams of ice-skating. And boys, God help them.

I didn’t think I’d ever see you again after I had Lexi, Dana sighed.

Emma pushed her back at arm’s length, her chocolate eyes clouded with memories. My heart just about jumped plumb out of my chest when I saw you on the news after the riots.

Emma had lost her only son in those riots, but neither mentioned it. They hadn’t spoken of Jimmy in several years. Let the dead stay dead, Emma had said. That thought was chased with the image of Nikkei, tied and gagged in front of the headstone.

Dana shivered and pulled herself up straight, slamming the door on her imagination. Think I could do with a shower.

I’ll put on some coffee. Emma stopped at the door and looked back. We can let Lexi sleep in this morning. I’ll see that she gets to school after you leave.

Thanks, Emma.

"Ma foi! You know, you should really take a good hard look at that enfant chéri of yours sometime, Emma smiled. She’s a wonderful kid, but she wouldn’t have been that way if she hadn’t had a wonderful mamma."

Dana laughed. Nice to know I did at least one thing right.

Closing the door with a soft creak, Emma was gone. Her throaty chuckles followed her down the hall to the stairs before fading away.

Her cigarette had burned out long ago, leaving a snake of ashes crawling across the week-old pile of butts. Tossing this into the wastebasket in the bathroom, her eyes skittered away from her reflection in the mirror. She had seen addicts battling DT’s at Whitehaven who had looked like that. Haggard and worn out, frightened and uncomfortable in their own skin. Not a comforting thought.

Easing herself under the shower until she could stand the heat without flinching, she turned to let the powerful spray work its magic on the muscles in her neck and shoulders. When they finally began to unclench, she let her mind turn towards Nikkei.

It had been two weeks since she had disappeared from the shelter. The official report was runaway, but it just didn’t ring true for Dana. The girl had made too much progress. Like so many other teens in Memphis – all over the country for that matter – the streets had first been a refuge, then an addiction. Unfortunately, there was no AA group for kids forced into prostitution. No twelve-step program to convince them that life didn’t have to be a case of them against the world, or a constant game of survival.

Nikkei wouldn’t have gone back. Couldn’t have. She’d come too far. She was happy, dammit! It’s that simple. For the first time in her life, she was happy.

And that dream. Unlike Emma, she’d never been one to believe in psychics or ghosties, but if she had woken up with a couple of handfuls of dirt in bed with her, she wouldn’t have been surprised. It had been so real.

Kicking the hot water up another notch, to get rid of the cold that had settled deep in her bones, she rinsed the soap off and lingered just a bit longer. She’d had enough of being cold, but knew that her office at the State Building was likely to be just as cold inside as out.

Making a mental note to swing by the shelter on the way to work, she stepped out of the shower and finally faced the mirror. Tiny worry lines still marked her eyes and the skin beneath was a tad too dark, but her eyes didn’t look like they were about to bug out of her skull. The heat of the shower had put some color back in her face. Not bad for twenty-seven, going on forty. At five foot five, she’d never be a supermodel, but that was okay. She could still draw looks and a few whistles. She kept telling herself that she’d start dating again soon, but had yet to meet a guy that floated her boat.

No one except Chris, anyway.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t hate him for leaving. Couldn’t blame him for not being able to understand what was happening to her when she couldn’t even understand it herself. Countless doctors had all done the same thing, shoved a packet of birth-control pills in her face, and told her that would kick start her hormones again. Right! Too concerned with her age to believe that anything could possibly be seriously wrong, they managed to convince both her and Chris that it was all in her head. She’d needed a shrink, not a medical doctor.

It was only after Chris had left a year ago that she’d been able to find a doctor who would listen to her. From there, it had been World War 3 between him and the insurance company. God forbid a twenty-seven-year-old woman would have the right to a hysterectomy.

So they’d done it on the sly. After getting permission to open her up, to take out a cyst the size of lemon, she’d waited for Chris to leave for New Mexico where they had a big drug sting planned and gave the doctor the go ahead to take everything out. No one, save Emma and Lexi, even knew she’d had it done. And the insurance company. After the pathology lab had handed over the results of their exam, the doctor had threatened to pack her uterus in ice and send it to them express mail unless they paid up.

They’d paid up. The glands had grown into her uterus, completely shutting down her system. Three years of hell, of depression and rage, wiped out with one stroke of the knife. She’d spent the past six months learning to live again. No. Learning to love living again, but still she wouldn’t allow herself the hope of getting Chris back. Not after everything he’d gone through, because of her.

She shook her head hard to force thoughts of him out. During the day she was pretty much okay, even when she saw him. Nights were a whole different animal. Sometimes she could still feel his body next to hers. Feel his breath on the back of her neck when he’d spoon himself behind her, his stomach, and chest to her back with his arms wrapping her in a warm, safe embrace. Despite the catastrophic mood swings and depressions, she’d never had nightmares when she’d slept in the circle of his arms.

Throwing on a pair of black jeans and a white sweatshirt, she followed her nose to the cup of coffee waiting in the kitchen. Of all the rooms, the kitchen had always been her favorite. Tucked into the corner of the house, it had huge windows on two sides and a bar separating it from the dining room on a third. An oversized butcher’s block sat in the middle and they had been having morning coffee there since they’d first moved in.

Hugging the big green mug with both hands, she held it under her nose to inhale the strong brew and grinned. Life was good as long as you had coffee. Closing her eyes to enjoy its rich aroma, she didn’t see the darkness behind her eyelids. The image of the headstone towering above Nikkei had tattooed itself to her brain.

Harmony Davenport.

For some reason, that name stood out above everything else from the dream. She would have remembered if she’d seen or heard it before, but there was nothing. So why did it give her a bad case of the heebie jeebies? She opened her eyes to find that her hands were trembling again. Taking a quick, cautious sip, she sat the cup down and stared into its creamy contents the way the old gypsies at the fair had stared into their crystal balls. But there was no magic chant in there, to bring meaning to the mixed up images in her head.

Where you at, ma chéri? The Cajun in Emma’s voice was as thick as southern honey this morning.

Lost, she sighed. I swear there are times when I really doubt my sanity.

Emma surprised her with a warm laugh. And what is your definition of sane? Because as far as this old woman knows, there is no such thing. Animals that think, that is what we are. Nothing more.

There’s got to be a line somewhere between the bizarre and the downright crazy.

What’d you think about the riots four years ago, she said, suddenly serious. What was sane about that? How many people died that day?

Sometimes she could turn a corner downtown and smell the tear gas; hear the shattering glass and the screams.

God, Emma, I couldn’t tell you that, even if I’d had a calculator. There were so many of them trying to come through the doors, the windows. It was a madhouse.

"Oui, but you had seen them before, you knew them. And one day their lives went out of control, people murdered in the streets. Men and women doing things they never would have imagined that they’d do. And the next day, they were normal citizens again. A little ashamed of themselves, perhaps, but you could find them at the Circle K buying their bread. Everything est de retour a la normale."

Dana took a long, thoughtful sip of her coffee and shook her head. But they were fighting for something that they believed in.

"En effet! They had been protesting something they believed in with a passion. The fighting did not have to start. I doubt they could even tell you who threw the first bottle, or the first punch. But their passions carried them away as if they’d been caught up by Old Man River, himself."

Emma sighed