Carrow Brown [Brown - Queen of Swords and Silence

Q ueen of S words &

S ilence

The Ghost Walker Chronicles

Carrow Brown

3 Fates Press * London

Contents

Copyright

The right of Carrow Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1976.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2019 by Carrow Brown

All rights reserved. Published 3 Fate Press.

ISBN: 978-1-9161252-1-6

www.3fatespress.com

Cover illustration: Pricilla Kim

Cover by Najla Qamber Designs

Dedication

This is the part of the book where you read how the book is dedicated to someone you dont know and will never meet. So, I want to shake it up a bit and dedicate this book to you.

Yes, you.

Because without you, dear reader, where would us authors be? Thank you for being there and thank you for being the awesome person that you are.

FYI, that thing you do is really cool. Please keep doing it.

CHAPTER ONE

Abandonment Center

W hen a home had a sign on the front door that said, If you have a fever, are vomiting, or feel nauseated, do not enter, most called them hospice group homes. I called them abandonment centers.

My watch read just past midnight, and the streets behind my stolen car were deserted. Even in the middle of winter the place was warmer than I cared for, but I wasnt a fan of desert biomes. Anything over thirty Celsius was unreasonable to me, which Arizona often was.

My hand rapped on the door, and I waited until it creaked partway open. A middle-aged Hispanic woman in blue scrubs narrowed her dark eyes at me through the crack.

You called for a pick-up, I said, holding up the bamboo plant Id purchased from the twenty-four-hour store. It wasnt much as secret signs go, but it worked.

Her eyes widened and the sour aroma of fear filled my nose.

Must be her first time , I thought. When she didnt open the door farther, I smiled and did my best to be unintimidating. Granted, being a six-foot-something, pale, Amazon-looking woman looming outside a door in the middle of the night never helped. So, I nudged the door with my foot.

She got the hint and stepped back to allow me in. The first door on the left, she said, gesturing toward a hallway.

I grunted. I need the kettle or something to heat water first.

The woman nodded, her eyes lowered. This way. She led me through the living room of the house and into the modest kitchen before pausing.

I spotted the kettle in the corner and went for it. Give me an hour, I told the nurse over my shoulder.

She bobbed her head once before turning away. I listened to her footsteps as she walked down another hallway and heard the faint click of a door closing. Hiding, probably. Like all the others did when I came to visit.

I snooped about the kitchen as the water heated up and found the hospice files in a kitchen cabinet. Low-budget places never bothered to lock up the files. They could barely get family members to show up, so why worry about a little thing like patient privacy? I browsed through them. Heart disease here. Alzheimers there. Sighing, I found the binder I needed and gave it a quick look through. Satisfied with my findings, I went about making tea with leaves tucked into a baggy. The mellow aroma tickled my nose and I added a sweetener to mask the bitter taste the drink would have.

My phone buzzed. I fumbled it out to see a text from my operator. You have a job pending.

Grumbling, I texted back. Busy now. Ill call later.

Returning my phone to my jacket, I made my way to the... patient? Victim? Id never been sure what to call them. Harder still when they started as one and became the other.

Finding the room, a lone lamp rested atop a table between the two occupied beds. In one, an aged woman sat, her hands clutching at the blanket about her with eyes gazing off at some distant thing not visible to me. The second person on the opposite side of the room, much older, faced a wall filled with butterfly decals. Her mouth opened and closed in a slow movement. I walked over to the goldfish woman and wrinkled my nose as I noted the lack of presence from her. She breathed and her eyes shifted, but nothing more. Her body, so frail and weak, had no hope of sustaining itself without assistance. I waved my hand before her face and, even with eyes wide open, got no reaction other than her mouths continued opening and closing. Probably a symptom of Parkinsons or something else affecting her decaying nervous system.

Leaning over, I placed my hand atop her bunched-up fists to seek anything left of her essence, but I found the soul long gone. She was only a vacant husk kept alive by modern technology and pureed food. The soulless husk and combination of the antiseptic, urine, and old-people stench of the building made my stomach cramp.

I stepped away from the goldfish woman and placed the bamboo plant on the table next to the other patient in the room and pulled up a stool to sit close to the edge of her bed. She said nothing to me as I settled in. This other woman was not an empty goldfish. Her worried features were interrupted by the oxygen tube about her face. Her snow-white hair was cut close to her skull, making her pale face appear tanned in comparison. The veins in her neck, arms, and hands stood out in definition and color. Despite her stiff posture, her upper body swayed subtly. Soft and easy like a ship bobbing at sea.

Kathy Jasmine Summer was a hospice patient with few visits in the last two years. The binder in the kitchen confirmed that those whod seen her with any regularity were the nurses, doctor, and a chaplain. Id also noted the once-a-month visit from her case manager. Not because I cared, but because it gave me some breathing room. Case managers who rarely visited didnt invest much in their charges. If something happened, it wouldnt be a prioritythe main reason for her selection. Part of me felt bad for Kathy.

The elderly womans attention fixed on me as I finished my inspection of her. I saw confusion in her gaze, and she clutched the blanket higher as if it would shield her from me. She swallowed before asking, Do I know you?

You do, I said, while setting the cup of tea on the table and gave my most gentle smile. It didnt put her at ease and I couldnt fault her. According to her file, her doctor diagnosed her with Alzheimers. Not being able to remember anything was something I related to.

I dont know you, she said, giving her head a shake. Wheres Tammy?

I am Tammy.

Kathy frowned at the words. She leaned in close to study me with watery eyes, taking in my face once more. After a few seconds, she leaned back into her bed, looking defeated. Youre right. Im sorry, Tammy.

Its okay. I reached over and took one of her hands in mine. They felt cold, the skin loose and delicate, giving me the impression it would tear with ease. The sight of such weakness made my heart race and I forced myself to breathe normally despite the thundering in my ears.

I never know what is going on anymore, she said in a near sobbing voice. I dont know any of these people. Her eyes traveled over her modest bedroom. They come and go all the time. I never know what they want. Kathys eyes darted about the room before she whispered, They wont let me leave.