Severed Souls: The Frontenac Sisters: Supernatural Sleuths & Monster Hunters, #2

By S.H. Livernois

Strangers, killers, and liars are everywhere.

A devastating ice storm has crippled the sleepy Adirondack hamlet Lizeth Frontenac calls home. There's no power, no phones, no way in or out.

 

So when a dead man is found on the side of the road, encased in ice, no one in town knows what to make of him. Where did he come from? Who shot him in the gut? Why is he dressed in clothes from another time?

 

Over the next few days, Lizeth and her sister Hyla take refuge with ten of their neighbors to wait out the storm. Tensions run high as cabin fever kicks in, stirring up old grudges and new conflicts.

 

So when two of their number vanish into thin air, the sisters don't know who to trust. The only clues are bullet holes in the ice and a stranger in the woods.

 

A stranger who knows Lizeth, who has all the answers. And a man who connects everyone in unexpected and impossible ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boonies Press
• Release date: May 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393059943

Book preview

Prologue

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

He squeezed his eyes shut, imagining that when he opened them, he’d be back at the house, safe and warm and in friendly company.

Please, wake up…

Nothing that had happened in the last twenty-four hours made sense. One minute, he was in the woods with his son, and the next, bullets were whizzing past his head, and he ran until he was lost.

And then those strange men appeared, almost out of thin air.

He peeled his eyes open slowly. Tears and panic cinched his throat—he was still in the closet-sized cell, and outside was the same darkened hallway, dimly lit by a window he couldn’t see. The same iron bars.

Iron bars.

To prove to himself they were real, he wrapped his tied, shaking hands around one; the rusted surface was rough and cold on his palm. He pulled and pushed to jostle the bar loose, but it didn’t budge. His fingertips tingled and a hopeless, desperate shuddering began in his lungs; he was going to hyperventilate. He took slow, steady breaths, sucking in the frigid, damp air. His heart slowed from a rapid fluttering to a heavy, uneven drumbeat.

He couldn’t lose his mind. When they brought his son back from wherever they’d taken him, the boy would need a comforting, firm arm around his shoulders. He’d need reassurance that his father would get him out of this place.

Unless this was a nightmare, as he’d told himself over and over again. A vivid, persistent one, but a nightmare all the same. He bit the inside of his cheek until he drew blood and tears came to his eyes.

Still, he didn’t wake.

The shuddering in his lungs intensified, and he grasped the iron bars again. This wasn’t a nightmare, but how could it be real?

Sometime between the moment he dipped his hands into the creek and when he ran into those men, everything around him had changed, the familiar warped and twisted invisibly into the unfamiliar. It was as seamless and subtle a transition as from waking to sleep.

Like a dream. It had to be a dream.

He pinched the tender skin beside his knee and felt the bruise forming beneath his nails. But he remained in that cell, the stone beneath him as cold and solid and real as the breath in his chest.

Not a dream.

He closed his eyes. In his mind’s eye, the strange men descended upon him in their red coats, bright against the snow and ice. One of them had beaten his son with a wooden club. He’d felt the hard crack of something against his skull and woke up in a wagon. The wagon led them to this place, an imposing building that looked both freshly built and hundreds of years old.

He let go of the iron bar, brushed flakes of rust from his palms. Blood caked the skin, filling the creases and lines, clinging to the fine hairs on the backs of his hands.

His son’s blood.

If he ever saw his friends and family again and tried to describe the experience, no one would believe him. The vile voice of doubt responded to this thought, taunting him: You’re never going home.

He brought his bloodied hands to his forehead and rubbed between his eyes, fighting that breathless shudder in his lungs again. There were only so many explanations for what was happening. He could be hallucinating. Or he’d died, and this was a purgatory. His gut dismissed those answers, for no particular reason other than they didn’t feel right.

And then it came to him like a slap on the cheek. The sting took his breath away. He wasn’t relieved, having thought of it. In fact, he’d rather that he’d died. Death he understood. His feeble mind couldn’t comprehend this.

Wake up, wake up… he muttered to himself.

As if in answer, his son screamed from somewhere deep inside the prison. He frantically twisted his hands and feet; the rope binding them burned his wrists and ankles. He grabbed the bars again, pulling on them desperately.

Don’t you touch him! His voice tore from his throat.

Footsteps thudded down the hallway toward his cell. A hulking shape lurked over him, a cruel face gazing down.

Shut up, you, he growled.

The man drew back his rifle and struck his fingers hard with the butt. He yelped but didn’t let go, so the man smacked him on the head. He fell back onto the cold floor. The small room swirled around him, consciousness ebbing in and out of his body.

Don’t touch him! he whispered. And then, softly, Help us…

His son wailed again, drowning out his own fruitless mumblings. His uselessness and cowardice were a sharp stab in the heart, and he sobbed.

Their voices echoed through those callous halls, out the windows, and into the cold, snowy night, meeting many ears along its path. But none of those who heard their cries cared about their toil or would help.

Father and son were alone in every way a person could be.

1

Lizeth slammed a plastic gallon jug on the counter, and the remaining cup of milk inside sloshed like whitewater in a turbulent river. With the other hand, she formed a tight fist.

She knew it was stupid to get so upset about something so petty, but it didn’t stop her irritation. Because it wasn’t just the milk—it never was. Everything was wrong.

It began with the freezing rain. For days, a layer of ice had gradually built up to three inches thick, until finally the world around her succumbed to the weight and shattered into a million indistinguishable pieces.

Then the power had gone out. That morning, she discovered her garage was iced shut, with her car inside. And now, Hyla was singing. Not a low, pleasant humming of a melody, but an earsplitting, overenthusiastic peal.

Lizeth gripped the counter to lessen her temper and keep her voice calm. "Hyla, can you please?"

The song was a fitting one. It Might As Well Be Spring from State Fair. Hyla was tending a pair of overlarge pancakes atop Lizeth’s wood stove and sang about being disconnected and hearing words from a man she’s never met. If Lizeth wasn’t so irritated, she may have enjoyed the sweet, melancholy song; Hyla had the voice of an angel.

Hyla, please…

In response to her sister’s pleas for silence, Hyla crooned about spiders and crocuses. Lizeth clutched the kitchen counter with both hands, her sister’s apparent happiness an incessant plucking of Lizeth’s last nerve. Two people in one tiny house was one too many. Since arriving the day before—during the climax of the storm—her sister had belted out the entire soundtrack of West Side Story and Oklahoma!, and Lizeth was in no mood for the next musical on her playlist.

She whipped around and glared at her sister. Hyla! Can you please shut up?

Hyla only sang louder. It was pointless, trying to get her to stop a song once she’d started. She stretched out an arm and sang the last few verses until the rafters shook.

There, now I’m done, she said.

Lizeth turned back around, ashamed for throwing a tantrum simply because things weren’t going her way. She held back a horde of insults and spiteful comments, and they burned in her throat like venom. Lizeth took a deep breath and pointed to her emergency crank radio.

It’s my turn to pick the music.

Soon Beast of Burden replaced Rodgers and Hammerstein. It was Lizeth’s favorite song.

My, we’re testy this morning. Hyla’s voice betrayed her hurt feelings.

If their mother were present, she would’ve scolded them for bickering. It had been a rough night; the sisters had spent it side by side in Lizeth’s bed, listening to the trees around the house snap and crack and crash to the ground. Hyla whimpered that a branch was going to crash through the roof and kill them, but the most dramatic event was the extinguishing of the power. Then they woke to an apocalypse.

Lizeth’s familiar backyard was now encased in sparkling ice, the slope of fresh snow solid as a frozen lake. In the surrounding woods, the pines’ gray needles stood tall amid a sea of splintered wood. Birches bowed like dancers after a performance.

Bring your damn cornflakes over here and eat breakfast with your sister, Hyla said.

Lizeth turned around in time to see Hyla plop two charred pancakes onto a plate. She sighed and poured out the remainder of her milk, then brought the bowl to her small fold-out dining table. Hyla shoved a large piece of pancake into her mouth, and syrup dripped down her chin. Lizeth giggled, wanting Hyla to leave and to stay. She’d felt this way about most things lately, as if she’d forgotten what she wanted in life and couldn’t make up her mind.

It had started with Nelly Huggett. When Lizeth’s mind finally had the time and space to explore and analyze the case, she recognized how much the child had disturbed her. The discovery that she’d been warped by evil witches hadn’t eased Lizeth’s concern. Hers was the fourth case that had ended badly, with their clients either in the same troubled mental state in which they’d been found or worse, despite their rigorous attempts to help. Perhaps this was why, during their investigation, Lizeth’s reality had slightly shifted so that she now saw the familiar and routine as suddenly not good enough.

This natural disaster was perhaps the forced quiet she needed to bring order to her scattered thoughts.

Soon enough, Hyla’s plate was empty, and her attention drifted. I couldn’t help but notice the box full of pictures over there. You never put them in the albums I got you.

No, I did not, Lizeth said, then drank the last precious dregs of milk from her bowl.

Why?

The pictures in question were those Hyla had taken on their travels; atop the pile of thick manila envelopes were the ones from Maine.

Hyla, I have two design projects, an exhibit coming up… I just haven’t found the time for it. Or anything else, she added to herself, sensing that the opportunity posed by forced quiet was quickly slipping away. Don’t be offen—

Well, I am. And now we have the time. Hyla grabbed Lizeth’s bowl, stacked it atop her empty plate, and brought it to the sink. You need to preserve those memories, sissy. It’s important… We’ll work on it today.

Lizeth ground her teeth, reminding herself that her sister was often at the mercy of her anxieties, and activity soothed her. Being with Lizeth meant that she didn’t have to worry about her while trapped in her own home. She’d set up the perfect environment for her own comfort, destroying Lizeth’s in the process.

What’s up with you lately, anyway? Hyla asked, watching the flexing of muscles in Lizeth’s jaw.

Nothing. Lizeth studied the iced lilac bush outside her window. Stop asking me that, will you?

Lizeth reminded herself not to snap at her sister, but her inner turmoil had turned her into a distant and short-tempered version of herself. She’d been intensely bitter with her sister as a result, and like with the milk, it wasn’t only because Hyla was in her house singing show tunes.

I will when you tell me what’s wrong, sissy.

Lizeth’s gaze unfocused; the lilac bush blurred. She couldn’t burden Hyla by revealing the emotional toll Nelly’s case had taken on her, not when Hyla herself had been so deeply affected and had not yet fully healed. Being possessed had drained Lizeth’s joy and vitality, but it wasn’t just the witches. She had absorbed Nelly’s dysfunction and the family’s strife, all in the name of helping the child.

In the end, Lizeth’s own suffering had been pointless. Two weeks before, Miles Huggett had been arrested for Gillian’s murder, and the children moved in with their aunt Emma. So why be an empath if it helped no one? Perhaps it was time to ignore her gift; it crippled her, made her fragile.

Why does something have to be wrong? Lizeth answered. Maybe I’m in a foul mood.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Hyla turned away and began to wipe the dishes, and Lizeth watched her with guilt. Ignoring her gift had obvious consequences: She’d no longer be a supernatural sleuth and monster hunter. The prospect, once admitted, was simultaneously terrifying and freeing.

The music faded into a news report. Hyla spun around and stared at the radio as the announcer’s grave voice filtered out to announce the ice storm had ravaged eastern Ontario, southern Quebec, northern New England, and their neighborhood—a sliver of land in northern New York, below the St. Lawrence River and above the Adirondacks.

Five inches of ice in some locations. Millions of people without power. Downed power lines draped across roads and millions of trees felled. Roads were impassable. There was no estimate for when power would be restored.

They were alone in a frozen ocean of destruction.

Panic crept up Lizeth’s throat, but she said nothing, whereas Hyla gave voice to every fear and grave possibility. She stood, propping her hands on her hips.

Do you have enough food here? Water? We’re not prepared for weeks without power…

Lizeth shelved her problems and her own nervousness—her sister was unraveling, and she had to catch the pieces and tie them back together. For once, it would’ve been nice to fall apart herself, just for a minute.

It’ll be all right, Hyla. Calm down.

Yes, calm down, Lizeth. She took deep breaths into her belly and exhaled slowly.

How can you say that? Hyla asked, mimicking Lizeth’s breathing. You’ve run out of milk, sissy. What else are you going to run out of? You won’t eat, otherw—

That’s not helpful…

What if one of these trees collapses, crashes right through the roof—

Geezum, Hyla, can you stop? I’m freaking out, too, you know…

How far away are we from the nearest neighbors?

Lizeth raised her palms, conceding the floor to her sister’s panic attack. A few miles.

How about gas for the generator?

Almost in answer to Hyla’s alarm, a knock rapped at the door. As Lizeth opened the door, ice fractured at the hinges. A man named Jimmy Lamarche stood on her front steps, grasping desperately at the railing to keep himself from falling.

Hey there, Liz. Jimmy peeked behind her into the house. Hyla.

Hyla nodded nervously and Lizeth muttered hello before letting him inside. Jimmy was Hyla’s age but looked much the same now as he did in high school: lanky, with an unshaven face, sleepy eyes, and pouty lips. Time had given him creases by his mouth and shadows under his eyes, but he was still oddly handsome; his kind, affable nature radiated outward.

I’ve come to take you away! he announced, ripping off his toque to reveal longish dirty-blond hair. A boy’s haircut.

Where? Hyla asked.

Claribel’s. And there’s no sense arguing. I have my orders.

Lizeth closed her eyes, forcing calm, searching for an alternative. The last thing she wanted was to be in a crowded house, where she couldn’t escape its warren of cramped rooms, her own anxiety, and the problems and emotions of all the other people staying there.

We’re fine, Jimmy, honestly.

Speak for yourself, sissy. What about food, water, gas?

You’re overreacting. I doubt this will go on very long. She looked at Jimmy. We don’t want to imp—

You don’t know that, Hyla cut in. What do you suggest we do? Hunt? Light a fire?

Jimmy laughed, but it was the uncomfortable laugh of someone witnessing a fight that was none of his business. You’re not imposing, Liz, he said. Claribel would love to force-feed you both. She may even swaddle you to help you sleep… Jimmy chuckled at his own joke, but neither of the sisters joined him. Let me take you, and if after a couple days you want to leave, I’ll take you home.

It was a no-win situation. Hyla’s distress was warranted—they didn’t have enough food, water, or gas to ride out even a week without power—but so was Lizeth’s. An ordered outside world kept her inner world in peace. When the world devolved into chaos, her mind followed suit, and she was already teetering on the edge of a precipice.

We’re going, sissy. Hyla crossed her arms and cocked her hip, a posture Lizeth knew well: She intended to get her way.

Why don’t you go, Hyla, if you’re worried. I’ll be fi—

Yeah, right. I’m not leaving you here. Are you crazy?

If Lizeth didn’t give in, Hyla would be insufferable, voicing every paranoid worry, complaining that Lizeth’s stubbornness had doomed them to a slow and torturous death. If Lizeth conceded, she was in for days of excessive noise and drama, when all she wanted to do was think in peace. Lizeth ground her teeth so hard, pain bloomed between her eyes. She’d given in to her sister for thirty years. To do so yet again was an automatic reaction. To attempt to explain why she wanted to stay would only cause more problems.

It was never just the milk.

All right, Jimmy, we’ll go, Lizeth said.

Jimmy nodded. Gather whatever you need. And brace yourself. It’s going to be a dangerous drive.

2

A mile down the road, Jimmy popped his finger off the steering wheel to point vaguely at the shoulder.

That’s where they found the body.

They passed the spot at a crawl. Lizeth spied shards of ice littered across a snow-filled ditch, but otherwise, its importance was imperceptible.

What body? Lizeth said. She was often behind in the gossip; her tiny house was buried in a cove