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PART I
The Bridge from Present to Past
ONE
FALLEN FRUIT
Onus
I wasn’t always the worst of the worst. A long time ago, there was a part of me that followed the light. She was … extraordinary.
I was in a small town in Georgia the night she collided into my world. There had been a wicked storm that night. Lightning crashed around us so violently, my brother and I were forced to pull our Harleys over and take cover at a rundown diner that smelled of grease and freshly baked pies. Quite the contrast to the scent outside that consisted of nature battling the turbulent weather.
The waitress was old, but the coffee was hot, recently brewed, and warming the chill I blamed on the rain.
It wasn’t the rain.
It was … a presence.
Everything felt as if I was lost in a dream. Every movement was lagging, slow, yet brisk and with purpose. The night felt like I was trapped in a song that sounded creepy on a lone, vintage radio yet accompanied with a paranormal movie. The perfect mix.
I was perplexed by the sensation because it was such a vast contrast to my everyday life. Usually, I was a walking corpse. Avoiding emotions was a superpower of mine.
Now I was receiving a mystical invitation.
To what, I had no idea.
Nonetheless, I was very tempted to accept the invite. Allowing myself to fall deeper into the melody was … daring.
Provocative.
It was … delicious.
And soon, unstoppable.
The elderly waitress with an apron that barely wrapped around her extended belly refilled our half empty cups while grabbing damp dish towels from our table. She had offered them to us as my brother and I had entered the establishment dripping wet.
With a southern drawl, shaking her head, she hollered to someone over her shoulder, “Those poor kids.”
Her words were directed to where one order ticket hung in the kitchen window. It belonged to the only other customer in the diner—a man immersed in reading a local newspaper.
From inside the kitchen, an older cook with a gray beard and thick, black glasses replied through the window, “A little rain won’t stop ’em from that dance.”
Crash! went another lightning bolt that shook the earth, challenging the cook’s feeble opinion.
From the orange nylon booth where my brother and I sat, I studied the night right outside a large glass storefront window that virtually touched my left shoulder, my brother’s right. The darkness—the air’s molecules—danced and sizzled with premonition.
My brother didn’t appear to be affected by the eerie happenings that were soaking into my pores like a drug of choice. He casually observed the monsoon occurring outside then lifted a brow to me, as if to question the cook’s intelligence while taking a sip of coffee.
Like me, Piercer was kinder back then. Not to say his road name wasn’t due to the fact he loved knives or using them when the occasion called for a stabbing, yet he didn’t enjoy the kill as much as he would come to some day. At that time, his dark eyes were still due to our Hispanic genetics. Not the unhinged trait for which he’d soon be notorious.
Instead of reacting to Piercer, my focus was captured by a moon ray pointing directly to the bundles tied to the back of our bikes. Blinking and forcefully being pulled from my dream-like trance, I hoped I was the only one seeing the supernatural arrow pointing directly to the illegal guns wrapped in soaked sleeping blankets while waiting to be delivered.
Discreetly, Piercer tapped the table between us to get my attention. Concern crossed his dark features as he studied me. He had reasons to worry. There had just been a vote at the club. His older brother was in trouble. Fortunately, I was still the vice president of the Fallen Gods.
With a ringed finger, I kept my hand on my coffee cup but pointed to the phenomenon.
Piecer took a gander out the window then looked back to me with brows now pinched.
