Only The Lonely (A Death Gate Grim Reapers Thriller Book 1) Read online

  Only the Lonely

  A Death Gate Grim Reapers Thriller Book One

  Amanda M. Lee

  Copyright © 2018 by Amanda M. Lee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  23. Twenty-Three

  24. Twenty-Four

  25. Twenty-Five

  26. Twenty-Six

  27. Twenty-Seven

  28. Twenty-Eight

  29. Twenty-Nine

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  Prologue

  Twenty years ago

  Belle Isle.

  Belle Isle.

  To me, it sounded like a fantasy land where magic things could happen. When I heard my parents talk about the island, though, they seemed ... less excited. I didn’t know how else to phrase it.

  Even now, as they worked next to the shimmering gate that led to what I thought of as other worlds, they made fun of the island and its lack of offerings.

  “I just want a good cup of coffee,” Mom supplied, as she wrinkled her nose and sipped from the mug Dad had handed her moments before. “I don’t think that’s too much to ask. If they expect us to work here, we most definitely should be able to get good coffee.”

  “Perhaps they’re considering making caffeine a banned substance,” Dad offered as he moved behind me, slowing his pace to monitor what I was doing. “If that happens, dear, you’ll have to register as an addict.”

  “Screw that.” Mom wasn’t paying attention to Dad’s gaze so she didn’t notice it was focused on me. “I’ll do what everyone else does and hide my addiction. I think that works best for everyone ... including our blood-sucking friends.”

  “Uh-huh.” Absently, Dad knit his eyebrows and knelt to look at my drawing pad. “What are you doing, Izzy?”

  I shifted my eyes to him, his tone making me wary. I was only seven, but my parents said I was “wise beyond my years.” I recognized when it was time to be careful about what I said. “Just drawing.”

  “I see. And what is that?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer the question. “It’s just ... something I saw in my head.”

  The gate’s shimmer ratcheted up a notch, but my father didn’t react, so I figured he was expecting it. His full attention seemed to be focused on me, which made me uncomfortable and happy at the same time. “You saw this in your head?”

  My lips parted as I shifted on the cool floor, grabbing my stuffed dog for comfort as I nodded. The dog, a present from Santa the previous Christmas, was the one thing I toted with me wherever I went. The drawing pad, a gift from my mother, was a close second on my “favorite items” list. I liked to practice, drawing what I saw in person and dreams. My mother said I had a gift for it. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, baby.” Dad stroked the back of my head and forced a wan smile. He was trying to soothe me, but I didn’t miss the look he shot Mom.

  Finally, as if coming out of a trance, Mom dragged herself away from the computer she was focused on and joined us. The quizzical expression on her face immediately shifted to something else as she bent over and snatched the sheet of paper from my father. “Are you kidding me?”

  Dad ignored Mom’s outburst. “Izzy, what’s in the picture?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. “It’s just something I saw.”

  “But ... you had to see it somewhere. This isn’t something you saw while playing outside. I need to know where you first saw it.”

  “I don’t know where.” I fought back tears as I clutched the dog to my chest. “I don’t know where I saw it.”

  Dad licked his lips as he waged an internal war to maintain his temper. I recognized the expression on his face ... and I didn’t like it. “Sweetheart, Daddy isn’t mad at you. Not even a little. This picture, though, it’s important. You had to see this somewhere. You’re not in trouble. I need to know where you saw it.”

  “In my head.”

  Dad threw his hands in the air and made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat as he locked gazes with my mother. “I can’t even ... .”

  Mom, calmer, shoved him out of the way to move closer to me. “Sweetie, do you see things like this in your head often?”

  I nodded. “All the time, especially at night ... and when I’m here.”

  Confusion was evident as she wrinkled her forehead. “Did you see this in your dreams?”

  I shook my head. “One of the voices told me about that.”

  “What voices?”

  I pointed at the shimmering death gate, the door my parents were supposed to guard. That was their only job. They made sure souls crossed over to the other side and nothing ever came back through the opening. I didn’t pretend to understand what they did, but as I grew older things became clearer. It was almost magical how I was beginning to understand things.

  “You hear voices from the gate?” This time Mom looked panicked when she glanced back at Dad. “Did you know that was possible?”

  Dad shook his head as he rested his meaty hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t. Maybe she’s confused. Maybe ... she’s not hearing what she thinks she’s hearing.”

  “Well, I can guarantee she hears what you’re saying now,” Mom said dryly. “Don’t talk about her as if she isn’t here.”

  “Fine.” Dad’s eyes fired before he shifted them to me. “Izzy, what do the voices say?”

  I shrugged, making sure the dog remained on my lap so I wouldn’t accidentally lose him. I was well aware that he was my responsibility and, if he went missing, it would be my fault. My parents were big on personal responsibility.

  “You don’t know what they say?”

  “They say different things,” I replied finally. “They ask what I’m doing and who I am. They ask if I want to visit them. They want to know if they can visit me.”

  “Do you answer them?”

  “Not really. I don’t think they can hear me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  The question felt too complicated to answer. “I don’t know. It’s just something I feel. I ... I don’t know.” Frustration bubbled up.

  Dad held up his hands in mock surrender as he forced a smile that was more of a grimace. “Okay. There’s no reason to get worked up. It was a simple question.”

  “We were just curious is all,” Mom added, her head jerking toward the gate when it made a crackling sound. “What was that?”

  “I have no idea.” Dad was instantly alert as he stood. “I’ve never heard it make that noise before.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” I offered, feeling the need to soothe. “It’s going to be okay. It’s just the voices. They say he’s coming.”

  “Who is comi
ng?”

  I shrugged. “Whoever they’re sending to see me.”

  “They’re sending something to see you?” Mom’s voice jumped an octave as the gate crackled again. “Izzy, why would they send someone to see you?”

  “Because they think I can help them. I told them I couldn’t, but they don’t believe me. Maybe they’ll believe me when he finally gets here. I’m tired of telling them I can’t help and having them yell at me.”

  “They yell at you?” My father’s panic was palpable when the gate crackled again. “What do they say?”

  “I already told you.”

  Apparently my answer wasn’t enough to appease my father, because he grabbed me around the waist and hauled me up. I managed to keep the dog clutched tight, but the drawings I’d worked on so painstakingly were left behind.

  “We’re leaving,” Dad announced, striding toward the door.

  “Shouldn’t we call the home office?” Mom sounded nervous as she trailed behind.

  “We’ll call from the house. We’re getting out of here right now.”

  I tilted my head when the whispering grew louder. “He’s almost here.”

  Dad didn’t wait to figure out who “he” was. “That way! Right now!”

  He scurried toward the door, sparing a final glance for the flickering gate. He didn’t wait around to see what came through.

  That was probably a good thing. He’d seen the picture. That was enough.

  One

  Present Day

  Two decades after my parents died, I returned home.

  I’d spent more time off Belle Isle than on over the course of my life, but I still thought of it that way. Home. It felt weird to return, yet the excitement coursing through me was almost debilitating.

  “So, you’re Isabella, right?”

  The cab driver taking me over MacArthur Bridge kept flicking his eyes to the rearview mirror to watch my reaction as we closed in on the isolated piece of land that split the Detroit River. He hadn’t said much since picking me up at the airport — the cab was arranged for me by my new employers — but I had a feeling he was more than what he pretended to be. What that “more” was, though, wasn’t easy to determine.

  “Izzy,” I corrected automatically, keeping my eyes out the window to stare at the water. It wasn’t exactly blue, as you’d expect of ocean waves or certain lakes, but the slate gray greeting me matched the worry cascading through the pit of my stomach. My mood was gray, so it somehow made sense that the river matched.

  “Izzy.” The driver bobbed his head, as if mulling over the word. “I’m sorry. The paperwork I received said your name is Isabella.”

  “It is. I simply choose to go by Izzy.”

  “Not Bella?” Mirth flitted through the man’s eyes. “I would think, given why you’re here, it would make sense to go by the name Bella.”

  I grasped exactly what he was getting at and managed to hold on to my temper ... although just barely. “I prefer Izzy.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  Thankfully, the chatty driver must have picked up on my mood because he kept his mouth shut for the duration of the drive. Once the end of the bridge came into view, I found myself leaning forward, eyes straining to take in the island I hadn’t seen since I was a child.

  It had been so long between visits that I couldn’t decide if the things I remembered were fact or fiction, so I had read up about the island to reacquaint myself. Those facts flooded my mind now.

  Located in the Detroit River between Michigan and Ontario ... one and a half miles ... museum ... golf course ... lighthouse ... boathouse ... yacht club ... aquarium ... nature center ... casino. I didn’t technically remember most of those things. The ones that seared themselves in my memory were the lighthouse, beach house and aquarium … and a little cottage long since gone. I figured the rest would eventually work its way back to me.

  The driver took me straight to the beach house, which wasn’t what I wanted, but I was so eager to get rid of him I didn’t argue.

  “Thank you.” I fumbled in my pocket for a tip, which he waved off.

  “Your employers have already taken care of it.”

  I stared at him for a long beat. “Well, consider it a bonus.” I pressed the twenty into his hand and took my suitcase handle from him. “Thank you for the ride.”

  The cabbie, who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, appeared amused at my abrupt goodbye. “Good luck in your new position.”

  “Thank you.”

  I kept my suitcase close as I slung my leather carry-on bag over my shoulder and directed my attention to the large boathouse. The main floor, used for weddings and other events, had become something of a social gathering hall. The house I had lived in as a child had been destroyed, so I would occupy one of the second-floor rooms. I was warned it would be loud on weekends when the weather was fair, but to basically suck it up. I was eager to return to the island, so I readily agreed to all their demands and ignored the warnings. Now was not the time to be persnickety. That was for later.

  The boathouse appeared empty when I walked through the front door. I cocked my head to the side as I searched for the telltale sounds that someone was inside. When that didn’t happen, I turned my attention to the front desk. A slip of paper waited for me there, and as I approached I realized it contained instructions. It was basically an invitation to show myself to the second floor and unpack. It also explained that a golf cart awaited me outside the side door. That’s it. No signature, and I wasn’t sure the building was empty. Of course, I didn’t really care. The boathouse wasn’t my biggest concern. That was still to come.

  I took the elevator to the second floor and found my bedroom relatively easily. I briefly searched my new abode — it was about the size of a hotel suite with a bedroom, living area and bathroom. There would be plenty of time to explore later. For now, I had more important things to do.

  I found the golf cart, and while it started on the first turn of the key, I didn’t pull out of the parking lot. Sadly, I couldn’t remember the exact layout of the island, which meant I had to Google a map to find my way to the correct location. The aquarium was to the west — something I remembered well — but the exact roads remained a mystery. The island was small, so I knew the layout would come back to me within a few days. Still, my heart skipped a beat as I sped along Riverbank Drive until I found the road I was looking for. It didn’t take long for the aquarium to swing into view ... and it was breathtaking.

  To be fair, the aquarium wasn’t overly large. It wasn’t the sort of facility you might find on the east and west coasts, where money is poured into the operations budget because it’s a huge tourist draw. The Belle Isle Aquarium was much smaller, basically housing some tropical fish and reptiles, along with specimens from the region, but the building itself was old and glorious.

  I parked in the designated employee section. I was listed as part of the aquarium’s upper management team, but I would have nothing to do with the day-to-day operations of the facility. That was for other people. Normal people. My title was a front because my real job lay behind the aquarium walls, where the gate was housed.

  It was the gate that called me home, after all. It was the gate I needed to see now.

  “Isabella Sage?”

  I jerked my head to the left as I entered the aquarium lobby, forcing a smile for the young woman standing behind the counter. She seemed to be expecting me — at least that’s what her bright eyes and sunny smile reflected — and the grin she lobbed in my direction was earnest enough to be grating. I didn’t do earnest. I was a realist.

  “Izzy,” I automatically corrected. “Call me Izzy.”

  “Okay, Izzy.” The woman was unfazed. “I’m Tara Middleton. I’m supposed to show you around.”

  I pursed my lips as I shifted my eyes to the main floor of the facility. “Who is going to watch this place if you’re giving me a tour?”

  Tara didn’t seem concerned with the question.
“It’s March.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s March in Michigan.” Tara’s smile never wavered. “We don’t get a lot of visitors in the winter because the bridge isn’t exactly fun to traverse during icy conditions. We won’t see many visitors for at least another month — more like six weeks — and then we’ll be slammed the entire summer season … and early fall.”

  That made sense. I remembered snow from my childhood, of course, and I saw it on the national weather reports. After the incident, though, I had moved to New Orleans to live with my paternal grandfather, even though my maternal aunt was a local and wanted me to stay with her. My grandfather put his foot down and insisted I go with him ... and I wasn’t sorry. I grew to love New Orleans and embraced the culture there — especially the Bruja women with their magical ideals and strong personalities — but my mind always wandered to this place and what I’d left behind. I figured there had to be a reason, and I had every intention of finding out what that reason entailed.

  “I forgot about the cold.” I offered her a rueful smile as I smoothed my onyx hair. It was long and straight — exactly as I liked it — and when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror behind the counter I couldn’t help but marvel at the way the lighting made it gleam. “Things here must be pretty seasonal, huh?”

  “Definitely.” Tara graced me with an appraising look. “I love that belt. Is that ... snakeskin?”

  I glanced down to the item in question and nodded. “Copperhead. I bought it from a store in the French Quarter. They don’t kill the snakes just for the belts — if you’re worried about that — but sometimes the snakes die when being milked for venom. That’s when they make the belts. They’re supposed to be powerful.”