Haunted Rayne

27 | Wrath of the Skies (part 1)

Rayne Foster regained consciousness in the heart of the Maria J. Westwood courtyard, her mind a chaotic whirlwind of disorientation, spinning in twenty different directions as she lay motionless on her back. Above her, the sky stretched like a vast canvas, a tapestry of shimmering stars and ink-black mystery. Blurred orbs of red and blue flashed over her eyes, vibrant yet mystifying, like distant fireworks exploding in her mind. Her hand outstretched toward them. Sirens blared, their screams slicing through the air, a haunting chorus fading with the screech of tires until silence loomed once more.

"Rayne," a voice broke through the mayhem of her mind. "Rayne, look at me." Her eyes slid to the right, her vision settling over her teacher, Dorian Matthews. "Can you hear me?" he pressed. "Nod if you're with me."

With great reluctance, she complied, confusion swarming her.

Where was she? What happened?

Dorian's gaze shot upward, his neck straining as he bellowed across the courtyard, "Someone get Doctor MacGowan!" Then, he returned his attention to her, those pale blue irises glowing with urgency in the silvery light, a beacon amidst the chaos.

But Rayne didn't want to be found. She tried to turn away, the weight of her body forbidding her. Everything was so heavy; she could do little more than simply close her eyelids. Every breath was a monumental endeavor, her chest feeling the weight of a thousand-ton cave in. She tried to inhale. The effort caused an upsurge in her heartbeat that made her eyes pop open in panic.

"Rayne, I need you to breathe, okay?" Dorian urged firmly, noting her struggle. Another figure tried to approach, but he held up a hand, keeping the shadow at bay. "Not now, Bradford! Give her space!" His fingers gently grazed her chin. "Rayne, stay with me now."

She stared up, Dorian's face silhouetted by the luminous moon, a halo around the black curtain of his hair. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a flicker of a scar across his nose, a dimple in his cheek. "Come back to me, sweetheart," he whispered.

A sharp inhalation finally broke free! She breathed in so deeply, it felt like a tidal wave, sweeping through her, flooding all of her senses. She could breathe! She could feel! She could remember! The pain, the loneliness, and oh, the crushing weight of failure!—it all ripped through her like a gaping, jagged wound, everything spilling over! She gasped again. Memories besieged her, vivid and suffocating. She remembered standing in the woods with Dorian, and then . . . the scream. Oh, God! Her soul had recognized it immediately, a visceral echo reverberating her core.

Lucas.

She recalled the heart-stopping gravity of the moment as she and Dorian raced back to the courtyard, following the cry that obliterated the silence of the night. Rayne was stumbling as she neared the school, eyes falling over smears of crimson, an impacted bush, and an empty trail of displaced gravel and blood. There was no body, but she knew—she knew with horrifying certainty that this blood belonged to Lucas. The sight had caused her to black out on the spot, her knees giving way, oxygen failing to supply her brain; and now, here she was, coming to in the middle of the courtyard.

The recollection clawed its way up her drying throat, forcing a cry from her lips, "No!"

Dorian's hand clasped hers tightly as awareness ripped through her.

"Lucas!" she wailed. "Oh, God! I—I didn't tell him . . . I didn't tell him I—" Tears spilled over, relentless as she found Dorian's eyes, the echoes of a scar having vanished from his face now. Her irises stirred. "Say it wasn't him."

"They've taken him to the hospital," Dorian said slowly, the weight of his words settling like lead in her stomach.

"Is he . . . ?"