Serpent's Sacrifice Read online

  Contents

  Title Page-1

  Copyright-1

  Dedication

  VIP

  Summer-1947

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Autumn-1959

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Summer 1960

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  VIP's

  Alice will return...

  Acknowledgement

  Serpent’s Sacrifice

  by

  Trish Heinrich

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9990669-0-4

  Copyright © 2017 Trish Heinrich

  All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

  Edited by Maria D’Marco and Dan Heinrich

  Cover art & design by Todd Downing

  WWW.TRISHHEINRICH.COM

  Published by Beautiful Fire

  706 Hull Ave, Port Orchard WA 98366 USA

  For Dan,

  The love of my life.

  And for Rosalind and Conley,

  The lights of my heart.

  Never miss a new release! Sign up for the VIP newsletter list and receive updates, special offers, and so much more! As a thank-you gift, I’m giving you the Prequel Novella, Serpent, featuring Rebecca Frost as the first Serpent. Click here to sign up and receive your thank you gift in your inbox!

  Summer-1947

  CHAPTER ONE

  Her short, shaking legs made the leap off the back porch a clumsy affair. Narrowly saving herself from landing face-first in the dry earth, Alice pushed off with her hands and ran toward the giant tree in her back yard. Tall dry grass and dandelions scratched her bare calves, but she barely noticed. Sweat itched her scalp and tears blinded her as she reached for the lowest branch and pulled herself up. Just getting into the tree wasn’t enough though.

  No, not nearly.

  She climbed up and onto a branch at the back of the tree that had grown into a wide curved seat, perfect for her little body. In her haste to reach her hiding spot, the worn copy of ‘Peter Pan’ hidden in a part of the trunk fell to the ground and her heart sank. If he saw it, he’d know. He’d find her. She curled into a ball on the smooth branch, hoping he’d be too drunk to notice the book.

  In that moment, the wind stopped shaking the fat green leaves and they fell silent around her, like a gentle curtain. The smell of summer roses and just-cut grass drifted to her through the twilight. Even the bird song seemed muted and distant.

  “Please, let me be in fairy land!” she whispered.

  The calm shattered like spun sugar when his clomping steps were heard just before he appeared on the porch, slamming the old screen door behind him.

  “Alice! Get in here!”

  She clapped her hands to her ears and squeezed shut her cobalt eyes. Fearful images assaulted her brain. Her father becoming a great naked eye, scanning through every leaf until he found her, dragging her down from her special place and into the house.

  The slap of the thick belt against his leg, as he stumbled back and forth across the porch, kept time with the pounding of her heart.

  “You better not be at that wop’s house, you little bitch!”

  A jolt of embarrassment and anger shot through her. He meant her best friend. The fact that he was only half Italian didn’t matter to her father. Her friend was a wop through and through, only worthy of disdain.

  An insane temptation to jump down and punch her father in his round, flushed face took hold. She sat up, small hands curling into shaking fists, but the sound of the screen door creaking open and slamming shut kept her in the tree. Soon, her father’s harsh voice was punctuated by the sharp snap of his belt landing on her mother’s flesh.

  Anger drained from her, replaced by a terrible guilt.

  Maybe she should’ve been brave and taken the beating. If she had, would it have prevented what her mother now endured? Or only whet her father’s appetite?

  A gentle breeze dried the tears on her flushed cheeks and made the tree leaves sing a rustling song of comfort. She wished the tree would close its arms around her, hold her tight, and carry her off to a tea party, where the outrageous antics of the others at the party would distract her mind. But, the tree was just a tree and the only tea parties she’d ever been to were those her mother played with her during the war, when it was just the two of them and their books.

  A crash from inside the house made Alice jump, a whimper escaping her thin lips.

  “Why’s a raven like a writing desk?” came a whispered voice from below.

  Alice looked down. An awkwardly thin boy with a large nose, wearing dirty cut-off shorts and a shirt buttoned the wrong way, stood looking up at her. He was too tall for his eleven years and his dark hair stood on end in the back. The grin on his face always reminded Alice of a silly elf, though she’d never tell Marco that.

  Casting a cautious look at the back door, Alice jumped down, picking up ‘Peter Pan’ before taking Marco’s sticky hand.

  She wondered if he’d heard her father’s slur, but his tanned face betrayed nothing but joy at seeing her. Alice squeezed his hand in gratitude for such a friend.

  Marco held up a loose board in the fence that separated her back yard from his, so she could slip through.

  The memory of the first time she’d done that shot through her mind, and she smiled. It had been a year since she’d come upon Marco sitting in his yard, reading a gloriously thick book. Before she could sneak back to her side, he spotted her and offered to share the book and his ginger cookies. Ever since, they’d been thick as thieves, never telling a soul about their secret way of getting to each other.

  “Mama made way too much lasagna tonight...want some?”

  Alice’s stomach flipped. “Lasagna? That must mean Lionel is here, too.”

  Marco nodded. “I think he can smell it three blocks away.”

  As they stepped into the warm kitchen, the smell of garlic and cheese made Alice’s stomach gurgle with anticipation. There was always a hint of some kind of cleaner under the delicious smell of Mrs. Mayer’s cooking and every surface gleamed.

  The walls were papered with a green and white checked pattern, with matching curtains that fluttered with the summer breeze.

  “Bella Alice, you been up your tree again!” said Marco’s mother, picking a leaf out of Alice’s hair.

  “Yes, Mrs. Mayer,” Alice said.

  Mrs. Mayer was an appealingly round woman with large brown eyes, like her son, and dark hair that was always perfectly styled. Her English was better than a year ago, but her accent was still heavy, and when she was tired or upset, she would cut loose with a rapid stream of Italian.

  Mr. Mayer loved to tell the tale of how he, a shy bookish man, had swept the most beautiful Italian girl in all of Metro City off her feet, and had convinced her to move across the country with him.

  Mrs. Mayer gave Alice a welcomi
ng embrace, then shooed her and Marco to the sink to wash their hands.

  “Lionel is already at table,” she said.

  Alice might’ve missed a good amount of dirt in her rush to claim a seat next to Lionel. She made sure to pause just outside the door to the dining room and smooth her shirt and frizzy dark braids, just like she’d seen an actress do in a movie once. Her heartbeat quickened, but this time it wasn’t out of fear.

  “You gonna stand there or go in?” Marco asked, starting to push past her.

  Her pale skin flushed. “I’m just...I didn’t want to be sloppy-looking at the table.”

  “I think you look just fine.” He took her hand as they walked in.

  Mr. Mayer, who was exceptionally tall, stood near the doorway, but Alice only saw the light-haired boy sitting at the table, his tanned cheeks stuffed with bread, full lips greasy with butter. He grinned as best as he could when he saw her and patted the chair next to him.

  Alice practically skipped the short distance and beamed up at him before taking her seat.

  “Did you get your new bicycle?” she asked.

  “Sure did. Maybe tomorrow you can try it,” he said, around another bite of bread.

  “I’m probably too short.”

  “Okay, then you can ride on the handle bars.”

  “Isn’t that a little dangerous?” Marco asked.

  “Not with me in control,” Lionel said, giving Marco a friendly punch on the shoulder.

  Marco winced and rubbed the spot.

  “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

  Marco looked down and shook his head.

  Lionel narrowed his navy-blue eyes. “Was it the Dorn brothers again?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Marco said, accepting a huge helping of lasagna from his mother.

  Mr. Mayer took his seat next to Alice and smiled down at her through horn-rimmed glasses. “Are you enjoying your summer vacation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I understand you and Marco have made your way through our new books already.”

  She flushed.

  “Don’t be embarrassed.” His voice was gentle, proud. “Knowledge is priceless.”

  “They’re just stories,” she said.

  Mr. Mayer looked stricken. “My dear girl, there is no such thing.”

  “Ach, Steven, let the girl eat!” Mrs. Mayer chided.

  He nodded. “You borrow any book you want. Okay?”

  Alice nodded as he ruffled her hair. She looked up at Mr. Mayer, her chest aching, as she thought how different Marco’s father was from her own. After the first week of knowing him, Alice stopped flinching at his hugs, and after that, she sometimes found herself craving the gentle strength in this man’s arms.

  “Is it good, Alice?” Mrs. Mayer asked. “You want more bread?”

  In answer, Alice shoveled a large bite of cheesy lasagna in her mouth, grinning as sauce leaked from the corners of her mouth.

  Alice stayed as long as possible.

  Dinner turned into dessert, and then games in the library, where she handily beat Lionel at checkers. Once the small mantle clock sang out nine o’clock, she knew it was time to face whatever waited for her at home.

  Mrs. Mayer hugged her tight and made her promise to come see them tomorrow. “I make cookies, chocolate chip, yeah?”

  Marco and Lionel walked out with her, though Marco couldn’t take the chance of her father seeing him.

  “Tomorrow,” Marco said, his long face stern.

  Alice nodded.

  He hugged her tight, his shoulder blades sharp under her small hands.

  It took only a few steps to get to her front door, but Alice tried to go as slowly as possible. Lionel glanced at the front window. It was dark, as Alice knew it would be. Once her father had passed out or gotten bored with abusing her mother, he usually fell asleep. But sometimes, when his anger was too hot to be sated...

  Her palms became slick with sweat, and the lasagna and cookies in her tummy turned to a roiling mass.

  “Hey...” Lionel said, forcing her to look at him. His square face took on a fierce look that made Alice wonder if she’d somehow made him angry.

  “If you’re too afraid to go in, I’ll sit with you for a little while.”

  “Won’t your mom wonder where you are?”

  Lionel looked at his old converse shoes, scuffing them on the sidewalk. “She’s out with her latest boyfriend. Hasn’t been home in two days.”

  “Sorry, shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s ok. I can handle it.”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  The door behind them gave a small squeak. Just when Alice felt as if her dinner might come back up, she heard her mother’s voice.

  “Alice? Lionel? You can’t be out here. It’s late.”

  Alice heard the unspoken worry: what if her father woke up?

  “Sorry, Mrs. Seymour,” Lionel said, giving her mother a lop-sided smile.

  Mrs. Seymour smiled back, careful to stay in the shadow of the overhang. “It’s alright, but maybe you two could talk more tomorrow?”

  Lionel nodded. “See ya.”

  Alice smiled and watched him run back to Marco’s to get his bike.

  “C’mon sweetheart,” her mother whispered, reaching out a thin hand. “I have something for you.”

  The dark of the living room felt thick and terrifying when Alice stepped in, her hand tightening on her mothers. It wasn’t until they were in the kitchen, with its warm light and comforting smells, that Alice felt her shoulders relax. The cupboards had never been new, but they had been kept in good condition while her father had been away at the war. Now, a few doors were missing, as well as some of the knobs, but her mother had put on a fresh coat of paint to brighten them up. The ice box creaked if opened too quickly and half the space inside was taken up with beer. Sometimes, if her mother was feeling good enough, she would bake cookies or a pie, and the smell would overshadow the pungent hops that seemed to permeate the house most days.

  Turning to the round scratched table, Alice saw a small white pastry box. She looked up at her mom, about to ask what it was, when she was able to finally see her mother’s face. Forgetting that any reaction would upset her mother, Alice started to cry.

  Her mother’s beautiful face had a new bruise on one high cheekbone, along with a cut above one eye, and a swollen, split lip. Usually, her father kept to her mother’s body, unless he was especially drunk and angry.

  “Don’t cry sweetheart,” Mrs. Seymour said, holding Alice. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Stop defending him! He’s a monster!” Alice hissed the words, fear of waking her father stronger than her desire to yell.

  “He’s not, Alice.”

  “Look what he’s done to you!”

  “Stop, sweetheart, please. Look here...look what I brought home for you.” She lifted the lid of the pastry box and nestled inside was a small cake with pink frosting topped with small blue roses.

  “I know your birthday was last week,” she said, lifting the cake out. “But Will found out you hadn’t had a cake and gave this to me today.”

  Alice wiped her nose and stared down at the beautiful little cake. Will was the owner of the diner where her mother worked. He was always sending left-overs home for them or giving her mother the easy shifts, if he saw she was hurt especially bad. Many a day Alice had wished that Mr. Mayer or Will was her real father.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, it’s very pretty. Please, tell him I said thank you.”

  Mrs. Seymour hugged Alice, running her hand up and down her back and humming a lullaby. Alice had just turned nine and was really too old for lullabies, but if it made her mom feel better...

  “I am so happy you were born,” Mrs. Seymour whispered. “You make me so happy.”

  Alice hugged her mother a little tighter and when her mother didn’t wince in pain, she hugged tighter still.

  “Should we cut the cake?”

>   “Yes.”

  Mrs. Seymour took two of the good plates out of their hiding place and poured two small glasses of milk. The cake was so small that she placed a half each on their plates. They ate in silence.

  Alice somehow found room in her belly, even after stuffing herself on Mrs. Mayer’s lasagna. She looked at her mother’s thin hands and the unbruised cheek that had begun to look sunken and wondered if her mother had been able to eat any dinner.

  After they’d quietly washed up and Alice was tucked into her small bed, Mrs. Seymour took out a faded green book and opened it to where they’d left off the night before. As the words floated down from her mother’s lips, Alice sighed with pleasure, transported to a beautiful garden where there was nothing to fear.

  Before she drifted off, Alice’s mother kissed the tip of her nose and whispered, “Till next we meet, sweet.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The wind blew Alice’s dark braids out behind her, drying the sweat on her face and neck as she careened down the street. Her bottom bounced on the handle bars of Lionel’s bike as they hit a crack in the sidewalk. Sweat-slick hands slipped and for a brief moment Alice thought she might fall, but Lionel grabbed her arm just in time.

  “Faster?” Lionel shouted.

  “Yes!”

  She screeched in fear and elation as Lionel let out a primal shout of pleasure. The shiny red and blue bike barreled past old wood fences and sagging porches.

  Alice didn’t have to hide her face, wondering if the people who lived there knew what her father was like. At this speed, she was invisible — free.

  Their neighborhood of Park Side made up most of the southern tip of Jet City. At one time, it had been full of neat, well-kept homes. Small businesses had begun to flourish, and families had felt safe and proud to say they lived there. But, just before the war, Park Side had begun a steep decline. No one knew why, or if they did, they didn’t bother to explain it. Now, many of the houses had overgrown yards and paint peeling off their fronts. The families that lived there were either too poor or too tired from scraping a living together to give much attention to what their home looked like. The few that were well-kept stuck out in strange contrast to the sad decay around them.