Caress of Flame Read Free Page A

into the trees that were illuminated by her headlights, before she sighed heavily and finally turned the ignition off, casting the woods back into their natural darkness.
    Trying not to admit her fear by running up to the front door like a great big chicken, she slowly took one step after another until she was on her front porch, unlocking her door with purposefully steady fingers. The wind was cool and she realized as the air hit her face that she had been sweating. Wiping a hand over her face rebelliously, she went into the house and shut the door firmly behind her.
    First thing, Isis shed her clothes and climbed into the shower, just as she did every night after a show. She wanted to wash away the feel of all those grabbing hands from her skin. Scrubbing her skin raw was the only way she could feel clean on a night like this. And there was an even greater dirty feeling tonight due to Maria’s letter.
    Isis thought she’d become numb over the years. But the note had brought out all the old feelings of fear and rage as if no time had passed at all. She felt like she was a teenager again, hiding from her stepfather and dealing with her mother’s bipolar condition every second of every day. It sickened her, this weakness she hadn’t been able to conquer, even after all this time.
    How she’d hated her stepfather. How she had loved her mother, wanting nothing but to please her and always failing. She still hated her stepdad—more now after reading Maria’s note—and she still loved her mother, forgiving her for all the hardships Isis had endured because her mother had been mentally unstable. Maria had never been the object of their mother’s rage, only Isis. Even as a child Isis liked to stand on the 1fringe of things, to blend into obscurity as often as she could, especially when her stepfather was around. Their mother had always seen this as a failure in Isis and it still hurt to think about, even now, so long after the horror of life with her family.
    What hurt Isis the most was the fact that her mother had gone to the grave without believing the truth. No, her mother had chosen her husband over her child, and Isis knew nothing could have persuaded her mother to believe the truth. Isis had had to leave after that horrible winter night just two days after her seventeenth birthday. Life in her stepfather’s home would have been impossible after the traumatic events of that long-ago night anyway.
    The pain of her childhood had shaped her into the loner she was now, and Isis knew it. She hated to hear people blame their parents for their problems, but Isis secretly did blame her parents. Or her stepfather, at least. Isis often used to wonder what she would be like today if she’d only had better parents, but she’d long ago given up that path of thought. It did no good to ask, “What if?” What if had no bearing on the present and Isis had eventually accepted that.
    Or so she’d thought.
    Damn her sister. And damn her stepfather. Isis had left them both behind and never looked back. Why had Maria felt it necessary to tell Isis the horrible news?
    Again, though it pained her, Isis admitted to herself that it had been out of malice.
    What else could she believe? The contents of the letter were only grisly descriptions of things best not thought about—best not even imagined in nightmares. Isis could have died happily not knowing the news the missive contained.
    After her shower, Isis retrieved the letter and grabbed a half-full bottle of Jagermeister from the fridge. She opened the bottle and drank from it, not bothering to get a glass. The liquor burned its way down her throat, filling her mouth with the taste of licorice and warming her throughout. Isis took two more large swallows and sat at her kitchen table, laying out the paper before her.
    Isis stared off into space, imagining herself somewhere else, anywhere else. Every few minutes she’d take a drag from the bottle of Jager, until her head was abuzz with