By Thio Isobel Moss

I’ll be doing a Kindle Countdown between March 21st and 27th. In anticipation of that, I’ve decided to release the first few chapters of Blind Spot: The Covenant’s Forfeit as a serial. This is the first half of the prologue. Enjoy!

Prologue:

Kenny: January 29th in Parkville, Missouri

“...reckless, irresponsible, idiotic, and selfish!"

Evelyn Vine, my beloved sister, was in rare form.

Her condemnation, declaimed with stentorian flair, failed to provoke me...much. I had calculated the risk of my current venture. In a place with only bad choices, this was the best.

Ignoring Evy's histrionics, I traced the nurse's path as he prepped the room. His movements were graceful and economical. There was something reassuring in his competence – the fluidity of purpose.

Swathed head to toe in generic teal scrubs, there was little to see of the man underneath. He was several inches below average, dark-eyed, with only brief flashes of brown skin revealed at the neck and cuffs. If I had not already known who he was, I would not be able to recognize him again.

The dopp kit he’d been holding hit the metal cart with a resonating clang, bringing my gaze up to his. Evidently, he wasn't keen on being the object of my attention. My mouth twisted in wry amusement. It was possible that he wanted to be here even less than Evy did. We hadn't exactly warmed to each other.

“No! This is...,” my sister continued, choking on her fury. I had some concern that she might inadvertently damage herself. Or advertently. It hadn't occurred to me that she might until now. “This is insanity! After what happened to Dad...you can't let her do this!”

My eyes traveled to where my mom sat, serene in stone-washed jeans, a black blazer, her pixie cut perfectly imperfect, with her dog as the final accessory. The Belgian Tervuren stood at parade rest, guarding her. It was the perfect ensemble to launch a criminal enterprise. Although her expression seemed frozen — a steely veneer concealing...I wish I knew what.

A wave of guilt beat at me. I had miscalculated this moment. I’d thought choosing a direction would bring us a sense of purpose, if not peace.

Mom endured our strange tableau without her customary smile. Her smiles were a language, a barometer of her mood, and as habitual as breathing. They were her sword and shield. Its absence flummoxed me. What did it mean? There were no more illusions, no comfortable lies, no polite assurances?

A goose walked over my grave.

It hit me. This was real. My mother, her dog, my sister, and my best friend would serve as my witnesses and custodians. A blanket of surreal dread smothered me, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. All my scheming suddenly seemed like a bad joke.

"I don't let her do anything, my darling. Neither do you. Kenny knows what she's risking.”

Did I?

“Our task is to trust her," my mom rebuked, as she stroked Mel's dark head.

Was it?

I suppose it would be too easy if she had said, “She’s doing the right thing.”

Beside her, Mel remained alert, one ear cocked toward the door and both eyes locked on the stranger in our midst. He was oblivious to my existential crisis. He hadn't reacted to my sister's ranting, either. He knew neither of us presented a threat to his familiar.

I envied the simplicity of his task.

With a grimace, I returned to watching the nurse as he unzipped the leather bag and slid a sharp, slender tool from its sheath. One by one, he laid out an impressive array of scalpels, serrated forceps, delicate clamps, and oddly shaped scissors on a white cloth. Objectively, they were beautiful — in a utilitarian sort of way. Subjectively, it was difficult not to theorize on their functions.

Holding up a scalpel so that it winked in the light, the nurse sterilized the pristine implement. In the mirrored surface of one of the wider tools, I caught his notice. Seeing the unfiltered fire in his liquid brown gaze, his expression was easy to read — rank suspicion accented by a softer strain of contemplation.

A smaller, slighter figure, equally aqua and anonymous, banged through the door and scanned the room with a gimlet eye. Everyone jumped, except for the dog.

"You want to do this here?" she demanded, appalled.

I surveyed the garage. Pegboard walls, dust-blanketed machinery, and a damaged workbench stacked with dingy tools and cardboard boxes surrounded us. Broken fishing rods lounged beside rusting lawn furniture, clothed in cobwebs. The ceiling was unfinished, with exposed insulation, well past serving any purpose. In the cold, stale air, everything looked tired, brittle, and hopeless. It was eminently suitable.

The lighting was dim, so we had arranged half a dozen mismatched floor lamps to brighten the ambiance...or, at least, mimic a clinical glare. They circled a second worktable draped with old sheets. An operating theater it was not, but it would do.

"Yes," I confirmed.

"It's not sanitary," she remonstrated — as if the state of the small building indicated a personal failing rather than an environmental concern.

"It is," I corrected, wriggling my fingers.

She regarded me skeptically, then shrugged. "It's your funeral."

An unfortunate choice of words. Evy found her second wind.

"Please, stop this, Mom," she begged, her voice hoarse and thin. I felt another twinge of guilt until she added, "She's not mentally stable!"

That was uncalled for.

It was true, perhaps...probably, but rude!

The nurse’s brows lifted in surprise. He hadn’t expected to agree with anyone associated with me.

I gave him a vicious smirk. Don't kid yourself, buddy. If I'm unstable, what does that make you? An upstanding member of the Community associating with an unstable practitioner? Heaven preserve us!

"Enough," my mother barked, two tears breaking past her resolve.

Something cold and hard formed in my throat. Her mask had slipped, and one trembling hand curled around Mel’s collar. She was dangling over the abyss, and I had pushed her there.

Evy crumpled. The blaze that had sustained her died in an instant. She really believed that I was going to die — if not here and now, then soon after, and Mom refused to save me. I shut my eyes. Cowardly, perhaps, but I couldn’t back out. I had to do something!

My lips flattened, a grim fatalism wicking away the dread. I had to do something. Once I accepted that, everything else fell away.

"On the table," the nurse grunted.

I did as instructed, kicking off my flip flops and lying back on the hard surface. My robe did nothing to protect me from the frigid worktop. My headlights were on bright, and my backside was stiff as a board. We should have brought a space heater.

The nurse's gloved palm twitched as he reluctantly took hold of my arm and sterilized a patch of skin near my elbow. He needn't worry; what ailed me wasn't contagious.

A second later, I felt the pinch of a needle. He taped the IV in place and turned back to his cart. The surgeon was busy scouring her hands and arms up to the elbows at the rusty sink. I felt oddly detached as the nurse prepared a syringe...as though all of this were merely a scene from a play.

I suspected myself of dissociating.

"I can't do this. I can't watch this...lunacy," Evy rasped, charging out the door with a sound somewhere between a sob and a bellow.

I shored up my resolve but couldn't keep from glancing over at my mom once again. She closed her eyes for a long moment but said nothing. Nore silently emerged from the shadows hugging the walls to stand beside her. She took one of Mom's hands between her own. Her mild expression betrayed nothing, but she offered me a slow blink from fathomless, black eyes and a single nod.

Four witnesses would have been better, but three would do.

"This is the point of no return," the nurse growled, unaffected by the drama. He held up the hypodermic needle. "Are we proceeding?"

A memory unfolded in my mind, like a paper crane being unmade. Warm, golden light splashed through a window and over the sink, staining the counters and the hardwood floor, catching on a bowl of apples. The familiar, comforting scent of fresh lemons and baking soda enveloped me.

A younger me stood on a step stool beside the marble countertop and explained the finer points of sandwich-making to an invisible audience. I was pretending to host my own cooking show. My ingredients were arranged in a row, along with a plate garnished with carrot and celery sticks. Mel listened from the floor as I crafted the pinnacle of peanut butter and jelly perfection — sliced diagonally.

The image fled as quickly as it had come — a mirage, quicksand. Even at eight, I had known my place in the world. The point of no return had come and gone twenty-two years ago. More recent events had merely underscored the inevitable.

"Do it.”

"Glasses," demanded the nurse.

I swept them off and handed them over, closing my eyes to the searing light and stray visions my brain conjured. Although I didn't observe what followed, I swore I heard the scrape of rubber against glass as the plunger of the syringe depressed. Half a moment later, ice slid beneath my skin.

"Sleepy yet?" asked the nurse, apathetic.

"No."

"Count backward from ten."

"Ten," I began. The swish of fabric sliding against the sheet-covered table whispered in my ear. The ting of metal striking against metal pierced the air as I imagined hoarfrost creeping deeper into my veins.

"Nine," I murmured, trying not to fight the anesthesia. I didn't like being helpless.

I took a deep breath...and another, filling my lungs with cold, sour air. I wasn't alone. If I did pop off, I would be avenged.

The thought pulled a smile to my lips.

"Eight..."

Pt. 2 will be posted on Monday, March 9th.

Happy reading!

The Prologue Pt. 1 of Blind Spot: The Covenant’s Forfeit