Free Wake for Me (Life or Death Series) by Isobel Irons

scent of scorched air burns my lungs.
    Or is it something else? Trees, I think. Burning trees. Cedar. Cigars. I know that smell.
    Another bolt of lightning hits the trees off in the distance. Sycamores, now burning.
    Suddenly, I know where I am. I’m asleep. None of this is real. Or is it?
    I close my eyes, blocking out the confusing landscape around me. Instead, I focus everything I have on the familiar smell, on the faint sound of someone breathing. He’s found me. But that isn’t right, is it? He never left me. He’s always been there, watching quietly. Waiting for this chance.
    My eyes feel so heavy. They won’t obey my command to open. I try to sit up, try to move my arms and legs or open my mouth and scream for help. But I can’t. I’m paralyzed, helpless.
    Someone is in my room.
    I try to calm my racing heart, try to breathe more silently so I can mark where he is. He circles me, breathing loudly. In the sudden stillness, it sounds like dry leaves rustling in the wind. There’s a dragging sound, then a heavy thud. I can feel heat on my face as he leans closer. The smell grows stronger. Nauseating. Unbearable.
    Cigars, burned cedar. Something sour and stale. I know that smell.
    There’s not much I’m sure of anymore, but one thing I know with an absolute certainty. He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die.
     Fabric rubs together, and a hand touches my neck. I recoil inside my mind, but my body doesn’t flinch. I scream, but my throat smothers the sound before it begins.
    The hand moves across my face, gently, like a lover’s caress. Or the cool touch of a mother’s hand to a sick child’s forehead. But it might as well be the scales of a snake sliding over my skin, for all that it comforts me.
    Suddenly, something worse than death occurs to my panicked mind. No. Don’t touch me, I scream inside my head. Don’t you dare touch me.
    But his hand doesn’t trail any lower. He stops at my lips. His fingers are all that I smell as he tightens his hand over my mouth and nose. The smell is stringent, like rubbing alcohol.
    I can’t breathe. This isn’t a dream. I’m dying, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
    The thought fills me with a burning, blinding rage.
    For the first time, my body starts to move. My fingers clutch at nothing, scrabbling for purchase but too weak to take hold of anything substantial. My legs kick feebly. My lungs burn.
    Please, God, don’t let me die. Not like this. Oh, God. Sam, where are you? Save me.
    The smell begins to fade. The sounds, too. The whole world fades into darkness. I’m being sucked under the water all over again, drowning all over again.
    My arms and legs tire and go still. The thunder crashes through me. Once, twice, three times. The echo of it pounds in my ears, and I finally recognize it for what it is: the last few beats of my heart. I can feel myself letting go, resigning myself to oblivion. But not without saying goodbye.
    With my dying breath, I whisper, “Sam.”
     

 
    CHAPTER TEN
     
    “Being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise.” –Sigmund Freud
     
    “Oh my God, I can’t believe your dad is Dr. Bel-Air!”
    Sam rolled his eyes and took another swig of his beer. If he’d been counting—and he hadn’t—this probably would’ve been about the ninetieth time he’d heard that exact phrase tonight. Number one had been right after the first girl of the evening had confessed to being an actress, and Brady had oh-so-modestly replied, ‘Really? That’s cool. I was on camera a lot, growing up. My dad is on this TV show, back in LA.”
    “Oh my God, I can’t believe your dad is Dr. Bel-Air! I have to call my friend Anastasia. She absolutely loves that show!”
    That’s how the bar crawl had started. Brady’s new actress friend had dragged them across town to see her friend Anastasia, who was a cage dancer at some club in the Meatpacking District. Then she called one of their other friends, whose name Sam couldn’t remember,