Scorched Earth: Wrath & Vengeance Series, #3

By Sara Clancy and Scare Street

The Furies are back. But the rules have changed...

Four years have passed since Evelyn Figueroa and Aleksandr Sokolovsky were able to achieve the impossible and escape the clutches of the Furies. Physically and emotionally scarred, the duo has been able to enjoy a peaceful reprieve from the deadly monsters that tormented them.

But the Furies have returned, and they've changed the rules of the game. Not only are Evelyn and Aleksandr fighting for their own lives, but even their loved ones are being hunted. Determined to secure their freedom, they come up with a dangerous plan – find whoever started the curse and end it by any means necessary.

Their plight takes them from the blood-stained sands of their ghost town, into a desolate island off the coast of Australia. But no matter what they do, the Furies are close behind, toying with them, playing with their emotions, and feeding off their fear. Aleksandr and Evelyn realize that even their resolve won't be enough to fight back the monsters that will stop at nothing to kill them.

Death is closing in. And no one is safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Aug 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9798201896720

Book preview

Scorched Earth

Wrath and Vengeance Series Book 3

Written by Sara Clancy

Edited by Emma Salam

Copyright © 2018 by ScareStreet.com

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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See you in the shadows,

Sara Clancy

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

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Chapter 1

There was never silence in a mental hospital.

Classical music drifted out of the overhead speakers, trying to cover the beep of monitors and a thousand murmured conversations. Everything was new and pristine, but that never stopped the gears of the wheelchairs from creaking.

Evelyn hated the sound. She cringed every time the nurses wheeled one of the patients down the long corridor, the tires squeaking against the highly polished tiles. The now familiar scent of disinfectant and lemons made her stomach churn, and the plastic of the chair carried the chill of the air conditioning.

Ten minutes. It taunted her. Ten minutes. I only lasted ten damn minutes. It was a failure she couldn't tolerate. A complication that lingered after her last encounter with the Furies. Before the creatures of ancient Greek legend had returned to her life, she had been able to tolerate her mother’s presence for hours. Now, their visits were measured in minutes.

Evelyn raked her hands through her short hair, the crinkled curls coiling around her fingers. It didn’t help to stop the memories. The Furies had only forced her to relive the single moment in time. A day when the chemicals in her mother’s brain had shifted out of sync, turning the whispered voices into a screaming army. On that day, Ana Figueroa had been convinced that the only way to save her young daughter was to kill her before the demons could.

Evelyn couldn’t breathe as memories played across her mind. She hunched forward, braced her elbows against her thighs, and clutched her hands together until the joints ached. The Furies had chosen that one forgotten moment in time, but it had broken a dam inside her, and Evelyn was drowning in everything she had suppressed.

I’m terrified of my mother. Guilt crushed against her lungs and forced her down a little more. She hung her head between her knees and sucked in deep breaths. It didn’t help. Not in a place like this. Not with reminders of her greatest fear pressing down around her like floodwaters. Encountering Furies had taught her more about herself than she would have ever learned. She knew herself. Knew what she feared more than her mother or death or even the demonic forces themselves. The truest terror she had ever known was the idea that her mother's unidentified condition was hereditary. That one day she'd have a room here, all for herself.

As she sat there, head drooped between her legs, Evelyn focused on sucking air into her cold lungs. The simple, repetitive task was soothing. Her heart began to slow. Feeling better, she slumped back in her seat and rested her head against the wall, staring up at the sunroofs that spotted the ceiling. Gray clouds littered the winter sky, casting shadows down the length of the corridor as they drifted. It was peaceful and her mind turned quiet. Only one part of her memory remained. Swan Lake.

It was the tune her jewelry box had played. She had knocked it over while trying to hide from her mother, making it the honorary theme song for her mother’s murder attempt. Clenching her jaw, she struggled to drown out the notes. Forget how the metallic cling of the jewelry box had slowed. How it had continued even as her mother had torn the room apart in search of her.

An icy chill crackled along her spine as she realized that the song wasn’t playing in her head. Her eyes were drawn to the speaker system set high on the wall.

Swan Lake continued, each note the distinctive ping of a music box instead of a piano. Her eyes widened. Swan Lake grew louder. Turning from a soft melody to the pounding of drums. Louder. Louder. Drowning out her thundering heart and all the sounds of the hospital. Louder still. Then nothing. One blink and she was flung back into normality. Blinking her dry eyes rapidly, Evelyn glanced around. The music had changed to something she didn't know. Everyone was moving about as normal. People coming and going from the communal conservatory at the end of the hall.

Calm down, she commanded herself with an edge of bitterness. Don’t lose it here or they won't let you leave. Sighing, she ran her hands over her face and smoothed down the hem of her dress. The squeak of a wheelchair made her wince, every repetition of the sound eroding her nerves a little more. She kept her eyes on the chessboard pattern tiles as the person drew closer. Go on, a mocking voice laughed in the back of her head. Take a look. You’ll be joining them soon enough.

Her eyes stayed on the floor, tracing the lines of grout between the large white and black tiles. The wheelchair squeaked again. Followed by the slow, sucking slide of the rubber against ceramic. Squeak and slide. Lethargic and monotonous. The shiny plate of the footrest had just entered her vision when the patient began to whistle, the sound just as slow as they progressed.

Swan Lake.

Evelyn snapped her head up. A scream lodged in her throat when she met the dark, deranged eyes of Olga Sokolovsky.

You’re dead. The words croaked out of her throat as Olga latched onto Evelyn’s forearm.

It’s not real. No amount of reassurance could convince her that the sharp nails weren’t digging into her flesh. Pain shot up her arm, intensifying as she tried to wrench free. Olga grinned. A savage baring of her teeth. The hot, humid puff of Olga's breath washed across Evelyn's face, playing across her senses, another layer of proof that it wasn't in her mind. Evelyn clenched her jaw, fighting back a tremble that threatened to shake her apart.

I saw you die.

Olga giggled, tightening her nails as they sliced into Evelyn’s forearm. Blood seeped down her skin and dripped onto the pristine floor.

Welcome home, Eve! Olga laughed.

Evelyn lunged to her feet. At the same moment, she yanked her captured arm back, rolling Olga closer as she struck out with her free hand. Cartilage crunched against Evelyn's knuckles. Warm blood and spit splashed across her fingers. The grip released, a startled cry breaking the uneasy silence as the chair rolled away.

Mr. Birch! The nurse's cry made Evelyn flinch. A flash of white, a familiar woman crouched down beside the elderly, frail man in the wheelchair. It’s okay, Mr. Birch, I’m here now. Let me look.

Evelyn swallowed thickly. All she could do was stare at the man, willing him to transform back. The thought of Olga being alive made her blood run cold. But, the idea that Evelyn had imagined it all was worse.

What happened? Another nurse asked as he came to stand beside her. Trevor, she thought. His name’s Trevor.

Evelyn shook her head. The female nurse answered, barely looking up from Mr. Birch. She hit him.

I didn’t mean to, Evelyn mumbled.

I saw you, the nurse hissed. There was nothing accidental about it.

The sound of her father calling her name made her sag with relief. She turned slightly as he slipped into the thin gap between her and Trevor.

Are you okay, princess?

Before she could say anything, the female nurse told the story again. Evelyn hunched her shoulders and endured it.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.

You keep saying that, the woman hissed.

He grabbed my arm. I reacted.

Someone touches you and your first thought is to attack them?

Trevor cleared his throat sharply, the universal signal to keep quiet. The woman didn’t take kindly to that, so he continued in a loud whisper.

That’s Evelyn Figueroa. You know, he jerked his head towards Evelyn and lowered his voice a little more. The only survivor of the Red Death killers.

Evelyn’s face twisted with disgust. Red Death killers, she thought. Whoever came up with that probably thought they were being clever.

She didn’t know why, but almost every magazine and news source liked to go on about the dual meaning of it. Edgar Allen Poe’s story, The Mask of The Red Death, was all about an unstoppable killer. Evelyn reluctantly admitted that this was an accurate way to describe Olga and Petya. They killed across countries for decades without drawing attention. It took monsters from hell to take them down. The ‘red’ part was almost a laughable nod to the couple’s Russian heritage which, apparently, made them ‘exotic’, since America led the world in producing serial killers. Evelyn hadn’t looked at anyone the same way since she had learned that little fact.

Recognition flicked across the nurse's face. Her hands stilled as she took in every inch of Evelyn’s small form. Now twenty-one, Evelyn had given up hope for a growth spurt. Standing at just over five feet, she still cut an intimidating figure. She was a kickboxer before she was taken by Petya. She still was now. And had more muscular bulk than most men could brag about.

Oh, the nurse said eventually as she stood up.

I really didn’t mean to hurt him. Is he okay?

He’ll be fine, she assured with a pitying smile. I’ll take him to the infirmary.

Evelyn caught the man’s gaze, a task made harder by the tissues now pressed under his nose. His eyes had the glazed, glassy look of someone heavily medicated, and his mouth moved restlessly, saying nothing.

I’m very sorry. I wonder if he can even hear me.

Wrapping her hands around the handles of the wheelchair, the nurse paused.

I’m really glad you were found not guilty, she said.

Evelyn clenched her jaw until her teeth ached to force a grin. Thanks.

I have no idea why the prosecutor even let it get that far, she said. After all, they were the kids of The Red Death. They weren’t stalking you to catch up. They were obviously out for revenge. I have to admit, though, I never thought that there was that much loyalty in serial killer families. Did you know they had kids?

Olga and Petya? They mentioned them in passing, I think.

The nurse shook her head. I can’t imagine escaping two killers only to have their children track you down.

And they weren’t even the worst of it, Evelyn thought but said nothing.

I think this is enough, Trevor said, still in a whisper.

You’ve survived four serial killers. The expression she had was a mangled mix of horror, awe, and morbid fascination. It was a look Evelyn had seen a lot. Or was it five?

Five, she muttered as she awkwardly shifted her weight.

That’s right. Olga and Petya. Vera, Vlas, and Radmiar.

That’s the lineup, Evelyn said.

Maybe you should get Mr. Birch to the infirmary now, Trevor said sharply.

Yes, of course. Still, she hesitated. It’s been four years, right?

Four since the first attack. Two since the second, Trevor snapped.

Evelyn smothered a groan. He followed the case just as much as she did.

I’m just thinking, the nurse said as gently as she could. Perhaps, if you’re still this jumpy, you should think about therapy.

Evelyn’s father gave her shoulders a slight squeeze, signaling that he had reached his limit. Screw being polite or reserved. Let sarcasm and mockery reign.

Yeah, you know, that occurred to us, too, he said conversationally. But, oddly enough, having random strangers constantly making small talk about the most traumatizing experiences of her life hasn’t helped her to move on.

Juan, Trevor began, looking beseechingly at Evelyn’s father.

But Evelyn was already snorting in laughter and talking over him. Isn’t that just odd?

It’s almost like triggering someone’s PTSD isn’t a good idea. Juan twisted his face up in an exaggerated baffled expression.

Now, that doesn’t seem like something an employee at a nut house would know, she countered.

Trevor swallowed uneasily, realizing that neither of them was going to stop. You should take Mr. Birch down now.

The nurse nodded rapidly and began to wheel Mr. Birch away from the conservatory.

And after that, change professions, Juan called after the nurse’s retreating form. Mental health isn’t your strong suit.

Evelyn chuckled, her shoulders shaking under the arm Juan still had draped over her shoulders.

I love you, dad, she grinned.

He squeezed her shoulders again. Right back at you, princess.

Juan, Trevor began again, nervously clearing his throat. "Please accept my apologies. She’s new. I didn’t have time to warn her

Reviews for Scorched Earth

[Terri Kelley · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I read the whole series, hoping for more. There isnt a book of hers i havent liked. Great writing, keep it up!