Mortala (The Eternal Demise Duet #1)

Prologue

Madelyn

I’ve been planning my escape for weeks—memorizing every creak in the floorboards, mapping out the fastest route, rehearsing every step in my head until I could do it with my eyes closed. My entire future depends on tonight. One way or another, I’m getting out of this fucking house.

Slipping past the recliner my father’s passed out on, I carefully avoid the trash scattered across the stained floor.

Empty beer cans, cigarette butts, fast food wrappers—it’s all the same shit that’s covered every inch of this place for as long as I can remember, and I can’t wait to never have to deal with it again.

I can barely see anything since, of course, the power is off again.

Seems my father spent all the money on alcohol and gambling instead of paying our bills.

I manage to stumble my way to the front door, quietly enough that my father doesn’t hear me.

My palm is slick with sweat as I wrap my hand around the knob, freedom and a life beyond this house waiting for me on the other side.

A life beyond him.

With the slightest tug, it gives easily, and I mentally thank my past self for remembering to grease the hinges the night before.

Slipping through the opening, I feel a slight tug and gasp, cursing under my breath. The backpack hanging from my shoulder snags the ugly ceramic lamp sitting beside the door, time slowing as it tips from the table and crashes, the lamp exploding into little pieces on the floor.

My father's eyes snap open, and for a second, neither of us moves. Just when I think he doesn’t see me, his bloodshot gaze locks onto mine, and the pit of my stomach drops.

“Where do you think you’re going, little girl?”

Shit.

Think, Maddie, think. Come up with something. Literally fucking anything.

He’s looking at me with the same disgust he’s given me for as long as I can remember. Any excuse I can come up with dies before it even gets the chance to reach my tongue.

“You got somewhere to be, Madelyn?” he asks, his eyes drifting over to my backpack.

Understanding flashes across his face, anger following soon after, a look I’ve seen many times before. I know exactly what comes next, but he won’t get the chance this time.

Swallowing my fear, I make a run for it, my foot catching the edge of the front porch step, nearly sending me face first into the dirt. Cursing myself for being a clumsy, anxiety ridden idiot, I push forward, my heartbeat hammering loudly in my ears.

From a distance, I can hear my father yelling, screaming for me to stop running.

The sound sends panic flooding through my veins.

As a father, he was supposed to protect me at all costs, show me what real love is supposed to feel like.

Instead, he became the main character in all of my worst nightmares.

My lungs begin to burn, a cramp blooming in my side the harder I push myself toward the treeline.

The sound of my father swallowing the distance between us grows louder, the leaves and branches crunching beneath his heavy feet as he stumbles after me.

I barely register the pain from the thin branches and pine needles scraping against my face as I duck beneath the large limbs that hang low from the last storm.

I glance back, checking to see if he’s still coming after me. I don’t know how his drunk ass is managing to get closer, but I refuse to go through another day of my father’s constant abuse. I keep pushing myself, ignoring the pain that shoots up my legs as I run further than I ever have before.

A loud thud sounds off behind me, and I spin around to see him sprawled out across the ground.

Did he trip on something? Damn, his intoxication seems to be working in my favor.

I shouldn’t have stopped running—this is the perfect moment for me to escape, but I couldn’t help myself.

Slowly, I step toward his unmoving body, praying to whatever God that might be listening that I don’t regret my decision.

Moonlight reflects off the dark liquid that’s beginning to pool around him The closer I get, the more I can see the large gash on the side of his head.

Fuck, he must have hit his head on a rock or something when he tripped.

Well, whatever it was seems to have knocked him unconscious.

But what if he’s dead?

I guess that would solve a lot of my problems. I can’t go to jail for murder, right? It’s not my fault he tripped.

The thought claws inside my skull. There’s no way it was that easy. Surely he’s still breathing. He has to be.

Stepping closer, I crouch beside him, carefully reaching down to press my fingers to the side of his neck.

My fingertips have barely grazed his skin, when the bastard’s eyes fly open, intoxication evident in the bulging bloodvessels around the whites of his eyes.

Before I can fully register what’s happening, he’s pulling me closer, his death grip never wavering on the sleeve of my jacket.

Son of a bitch.

“No!” I scream, “Get off of me!”

My voice shatters against the trees as I struggle, fighting with every ounce of strength I have against his hold.

I attempt to rip my jacket off, my backpack sliding off with it in an effort to escape his grasp.

He grips my ankle, dragging me back towards him, my jeans catching on a jagged rock, shredding them as he pulls.

Clawing at the ground, I fight with every ounce of strength I have, desperately trying to get his heavy body off me. My hand grazes something rough, and I grip the same rock that tore my jeans, swinging hard and aiming for his head.

The rock strikes his head, blood splattering across my face as I continue to deliver blow after blow. I don’t stop until I see the light drain from his amber eyes—my eyes—and I know with absolute certainty that he’s dead.

His body falls limp to the cold wooded ground, and it takes several seconds for me to catch my breath.

There’s no need to check for a pulse this time.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my eighteen years, but I never make the same one twice.