Wicked Innocents: The Frontenac Sisters: Supernatural Sleuths & Monster Hunters, #1

By S.H. Livernois

A little girl spins a hateful web.

On Halloween night, Nelly Huggett's mother chases her through the woods, screaming venom, knife in hand. Gillian isn't a nice woman, but this is different. She is different, strange, not herself. Nelly's father has been acting odd, too, and her brother…

 

So Nelly does what any other precocious ten-year-old would do--she calls supernatural investigators and sisters Hyla and Lizeth Frontenac, in the hopes they might find out what happened to her family.

 

But in the Huggett house, perched on the rugged Maine coast, the sisters discover that nothing is what it seems. Not the Huggetts and certainly not Nelly. Is she just spirited? Misunderstood? Or is she a liar, like everyone says?

 

She is a dangerous foe, this little girl, with a devious imagination and a dark secret. A dangerous foe whose deception just might ensnare the sisters forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boonies Press
• Release date: May 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393983231

Book preview

Prologue

Nelly’s mother was hunting her.

The child escaped through the back door, having twisted away from her mother’s iron grip. She hopped down the steps and onto the lawn, racing down the steep slope behind their house and into the night. Her feet ripped through a layer of fallen leaves, stirring up their moldy autumn smell.

Nelly!

Her mother’s voice was shrill with forced playfulness; it took Nelly’s breath away, like she’d been splashed with ice-cold water. She ran faster, and the wind picked up, scattering pieces of her Halloween costume: the wig and stuffed raven on her shoulder. This year, she was Edgar Allen Poe.

Where are you going? Gillian called sweetly. Mommy just wants to talk!

As she neared the bottom of the hill, Nelly yelled back over her shoulder: You’re not my mommy!

Nelly’s spindly legs seemed to outrun her body, and she stumbled, falling onto her elbows at the lawn’s border with the woods. Sprawled on a bed of brittle leaves, she glanced upward at the trees. Their naked branches scraped the night sky, and a brisk wind whipped through Nelly’s dark, sweaty hair, slapping strands into her face.

She didn’t want to go into the woods at night, though she knew the landscape like the curves of her own face. Nelly had many hiding places among the trees; it was her safe haven away from her grand yet suffocating house. But tonight the woods were different. Nelly peered into the blackness that shrouded the familiar. An owl hooted, startling her. The sudden fear was a painful stab to the stomach.

Nelly! her mother called again.

Nelly jumped to her feet and peeked behind her. The sharp roofs, tower, and chimney of her house stretched over the lip of the hill. Slowly, her mother’s slender figure emerged from the sloped ground, silhouetted by the white cone of the outside light. Nelly’s legs turned to jelly. Her mother paused at the summit, and Nelly spied the outline of something long and pointed hanging from her hand. Then, in a voice sharp as glass, Gillian shrieked: Get back here, you little devil!

Every muscle in Nelly’s body tensed. The wind squealed, and in the distance, thunder rolled across the sky. Her mother’s shape perched at the top of the hill, black against the white light, then her figure vanished below its hulking shadow.

Nelly forced her muscles to wake up and desperately sucked in a mouthful of frigid air. She backed up quietly, taking large steps with her eyes fixed forward to pick out any sign of movement. She tried not to think of the cold woods behind her and what might be hiding there. But in that moment, Nelly would rather have been eaten by a wolf than stay at home with her mother—or this monster parading as her mother.

The forest canopy stretched overhead, tree branches reaching for Nelly’s body to pull her into the woods’ black embrace. The darkness deepened and the air chilled.

Get—back—here! Gillian screamed, her voice closer than it had been mere seconds before.

Nelly spun around and tiptoed into the woods so her mother wouldn’t hear her frantic footsteps. She picked up speed, weaving between tree trunks, plotting her path by memory and not by sight. The road was ten minutes from her house, and she wasn’t allowed to go that far. But tonight was different, and although that road would lead to her despicable Aunt Emma’s, it was safer than home.

Nelly tried not to think about how the wind whistling through the branches sounded like screams. Or how a stitch cramped her side and fallen twigs and low brush scratched at her legs. She tried not to worry when a peal of thunder boomed and the sky tore open to pour a cold rain across the earth. And she especially tried to ignore her mother’s hateful curses chasing after her, each one closer than the last. She thought only of reaching the safety of her aunt’s house, praying that the monster would never catch her.

Nelly ran until her legs and lungs burned and the crowded trees snuffed out all light except hot slashes of forked lightning. She ran for what felt like hours before she burst from the woods onto the black ribbon of road shimmering under the yellow headlights of passing cars.

1

Hyla Frontenac and her sister, Lizeth were being watched. Dozens of eyes swung in their direction, either curious or wary or annoyed.

We’ve been found out. Hyla caught her sister’s eye across the Formica table; they were sitting at a booth in a diner called the Downhill Grill. Two of these things are not like the others…

Lizeth chuckled and shook her head.

Whatever this town was called, it was the first they’d seen in thirty miles after exiting the interstate. Hyla had yet to see a stop light and imagined the entire population was currently in this diner. She was also certain they’d stolen someone’s regular spot during the Sunday lunch rush.

The sisters had grabbed the last booth by the window, which was lucky, because Lizeth wouldn’t eat anywhere else. She studied the view outside, of a wet, gray sky, the highway, and a sign fashioned in the shape of a lobster. Hyla tried to follow the chaos inside: waitresses whizzing between tables with no apparent direction, clinking utensils, a distant radio playing Boston’s Amanda. Across the aisle from their booth, she caught one old man gaping at her black pixie cut and leather jacket.

Hyla raised her mug of coffee at him and took a sip. That one’s looking at me like I’m a display in a human zoo.

Lizeth glanced over her shoulder, then smiled placidly. He’s just curious and too old to bother being subtle.

As the old man spooned scrambled eggs into his wrinkled mouth, Hyla wished she shared Lizeth’s patience. I wish people wouldn’t do that.

What?

Act like there’s something wrong with being different.

You can’t expect people to accept things that make them uncomfortable. Lizeth toyed with the string of her tea bag, draped over the edge of her porcelain mug. It’s human nature to be comforted by the familiar. Difference is chaos.

Nonetheless, Hyla shot the old man a dirty look. She was surlier than normal. She’d received a letter the day before that had brought up long-buried memories and bitterness, reminding her that people never failed to be selfish and hateful. Including herself. She tried to push away these old feelings and listened to the low growl of a dozen mumbled conversations flavored with the thick accent of Downeast Maine, but the mania of the diner only heightened her own anxiety.

To that old codger, disorder was epitomized in Hyla’s manly hairstyle. To the other patrons, it was the unexpected outsiders intruding on their Sunday routine, but for that Hyla could hardly blame them—she would also be angered by that small injustice. But chaos was a different animal in the sisters’ world—the world of the unexplained and real-life horror stories. It was a literal monster crouched in the dark.

Or the deranged mother chasing her daughter through the woods.

Hyla absently drummed her fingers on the cold table as wind shook the window in its frame, splattering the glass with raindrops. She adjusted her jacket, repositioned herself. Lizeth watched her fidget, and Hyla was mildly irritated. Having a sister who so accurately understood your every gesture, word, and expression was a blessing, but it also meant she had nowhere to hide when she was upset. There was obviously more on her mind this morning than the little girl who’d e-mailed them two days before. Lizeth sensed this, but Hyla didn’t want to talk about it, so she focused on their latest client.

She grabbed the case folder and a notebook she’d placed on the seat next to her, plopped it on the table, and opened it to reveal a printout of the e-mail. She found a fresh page in her notebook and wrote out a heading—Huggett, 11/3, Initial Questions. She felt her sister’s eyes on her.

Do you need to ta—

Nelly Huggett, ten years old. Claims her mother turned into a monster on Halloweena night and chased her through the woods, wielding an unknown weapon. Also says her whole family vanished.

Lizeth’s pale freckled forehead furrowed with scowl lines. I can’t make sense of those two allegations. Did she turn into a monster, or did she vanish?

Don’t know. Hyla wrote out a list of questions to clarify the timeline, what the girl meant by vanished, and how her mother changed.

Lizeth pointed at one line in the e-mail. I keep imagining that bit: her mother charging after her in the dark, carrying a weapon. How frightened Nelly must’ve been. She frowned. Are you sure this isn’t a case for social services?

Hyla wrote down What kind of weapon? and sat back in her seat. If this little girl was smart enough to find us online, she’s smart enough to call social services. There must be a reason she contacted us instead of them.

She stared at the words she’d written until the letters blurred into a wash of ink, and she remembered another little girl, a lifetime ago, with nowhere to turn. Hyla had to admire a child who, at ten years old, had the gumption to contact them. The Frontenac Sisters: Supernatural Sleuths & Monster Hunters. But had Nelly Huggett run from a real monster on Halloween night or one that lived only in her imagination? Had she tried to make sense of the turmoil in her life—an abusive mother, perhaps—by inventing a story? But if she was lying, why would she call them?

Hyla shook her head. But no, I’m not sure at all.

She wrote down more questions as the frizzy-haired waitress returned and slid plates before each sister: a turkey club for Hyla and white toast and cornflakes for Lizeth. Hyla looked up from her notebook to check her sister’s breakfast and groaned; they’d messed up her order.

You two must be twins, the waitress said.

Lizeth smiled. No, just sisters.

It was a common mistake. Only subtle differences separated the Frontenac sisters: Lizeth’s blue eyes were light and crystalline, her Roman nose and square chin clefted, her straight black hair kept long. Hyla’s eyes were sapphire, her chin wasn’t clefted, and she kept her hair short. She eyed the waitress as she placed maple syrup and a basket of jam on the table.

I don’t know, she said. You might want to check your birth certificates—

Hyla pointed at Lizeth’s toast. This is wron—

It’s okay. Lizeth shook her head and smiled at the waitress.

No, it’s not. My sister asked for her toast to be almost burnt and the butter melted. And this looks like at least two-percent milk, and she wanted skim—

Hyla, don’t.

Regardless, Hyla scooped up the offending toast and milk and handed it to the waitress.

I’m very sorry, she said and swept away.

Lizeth was scowling, but the corner of her mouth flicked in a smile; she only ate a handful of foods and would go hungry before venturing off-menu.

You need to eat, sissy, Hyla pressed.

Lizeth narrowed her eyes. What’s up with you this morning? You’re testier than normal.

But Hyla wasn’t listening. Speaking of food, I need to eat a lobster roll before we head home. And we should go on a whale-watching tour, if the weather allows it. Did you look at the brochures I picked up yet?

Not yet.

Hyla avoided her sister’s empathic stare and took a bite of her club. What? she asked with a mouthful of bread.

Just tell me, Hyla.

Hyla swallowed and set down her sandwich, knowing she’d now have to talk about the thing she wanted to avoid. It’s this case. It reminds me of… you know.

Of course. Lizeth breathed deeply. Theresa. I’m sorry.

I’m not the one who needs an apology.

Hyla had read Theresa’s letter five times in twenty-four hours, poring over the details of her friend’s life since they’d parted: a cycle of rehab and relapse, a failed marriage, miscarriages, estrangement from her family, jail…

Don’t do that to yourself, Lizeth said. You did what you could.

She was my best friend, and I abandoned her, Lizeth. Plain and simple.

Nothing’s ever plain and simple. You gave her everything you had.

And I made no difference. She took another bite of her sandwich.

Theresa had turned her life around without Hyla’s help, and she’d spent years trying. Her advice and promises, her unwavering support, and the thousands of times she’d held Theresa while she cried through a panic attack had been fruitless, because in the end Hyla had given up. A nervous sense of unease and unrest pricked her stomach, a sense of things needing to be set right and her unable to fix them.

The waitress returned with the correct toast and milk for Lizeth.