The Crescent by Jordan Deen
THE CRESCENT
by
Jordan Deen
* * * * *
The Crescent
~ Book one of the Crescent trilogy ~
ISBN: 9781310519819
Copyright 2009 by Jordan Deen
All rights reserved
Cover design by: K Keeton Designs
Edited by: Reader's Favorite
Interior Formatting by: Sharon Kay
https://www.jordandeen.net/
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any use of name brands herein is done so under the Fair Use Act.
Licensing Note: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be resold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Table of Contents
Contents:
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
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
Acknowledgements
Without my friends and family, this novel would never have happened. I appreciate having you in my life each and every day.
In loving memory of CJS. I miss you and I think of you often.
c h a p t e r
ONE
Blink 182 blared on my iPod as I shuffled down the sidewalk from my house leaving the stupidity behind me. My house slippers, wet from the dew on our lawn, left weird footprints as I walked. I tried to drown out the sound of my parents’ yelling in my head, their most recent argument still ringing in my ears. Being the only child meant being dragged into the middle of their arguments, each side using me as a pawn in their selfish and insensitive game of chess.
The war raging in my living room wasn’t about religious freedoms or Constitutional Rights; it wasn’t even about lying or cheating.
No, it’s midnight and the topic for tonight was who used their ATM card at the gas station. Yeah. That’s right. People are dying of AIDS, kids are being abused and abandoned, but my parents find it necessary to fight over $25.42. Oh, I forgot the $.50 processing fee for using debit instead of credit. So technically, the argument boiled down to $25.92 (including tax, of course). But if you asked my father, it’s about the principle.
The more they fought the more eager I became to get away from them. Next year I’d be enjoying the sand and sea in San Diego – the home of my aunt’s alma mater and my future college, not to mention that it is 500 miles away from this hellhole. My parents loved each other at some point, but it is obvious that had to be years ago, maybe even before I was born. As I walked past the Johnsons’ house, I wondered if they knew my father was a drunk-in-denial and my mother had recently started popping pills – uppers in the morning, downers in the evening. Then again, I always thought Mr. Johnson was a pedophile since he watched the preteen girls from the neighborhood playing hopscotch from his bedroom window with binoculars. My family secrets probably wouldn’t scare him in the slightest.
The streetlight at the end of the block turned my skin a fake tan color as if I had spent the whole summer at the beach, but I hadn’t. I looked towards my house; by going back now I’d risk being dragged into the argument. But it was already late and I had nowhere else to go. I could go to my best friend Jillian’s house, but it would be my luck if her brother would be outside smoking and rat me out. Ricky hit on me a few years ago and it freaked me out since he’s five years older than me and I had known him since second grade.
Kicking a few pebbles on the asphalt, I crossed the street and walked back towards my house. The faint shadows of my parents crossing the front room window of our house told me they were still fighting. I considered making another pass when an unsettling breeze rushed through my body, shaking me to the bone. PJ’s and slippers probably weren’t the greatest idea for walking around the block at night. This isn’t a bad neighborhood, but for all I knew, Mr. Johnson lurked in the bushes waiting to pounce. I quickened my pace as the sense of being watched grew in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to look behind me, but when I did no one was there. I contemplated pulling off my slippers and running barefoot, but decided that it would be a gross overreaction if I weren’t in danger. The Carsons’ cat was probably following me for a midnight snack. I hated that stupid cat; he always knocked over our trash cans and pooped in our yard.
I glanced behind me again and still nothing. My heart pounded in my ears and sweat collected in the bends of my arms and in the palm of my hands. Bushes on the opposite side of the street spooked me as they rustled in the wind. I broke into a run, the tail of my hoodie flying behind me like Superman’s cape, but I didn’t feel too super right now. All the houses on the street were dark other than mine and it felt like running in slow motion to the house; if only I could fly or have nerves of steel.
The road to my house had been stretched or maybe I was stuck on the treadmill from hell because it took forever to get to my house. My skin expanded with the force of blood rushing through me as my heart thumped in time with my feet on the pavement. I wondered if whatever pursued me enjoyed terrorizing teenage girls in the middle of the night.
Finally I rounded the end of the sidewalk in front of my house and bounded up the stairway to my front door. My hands shook as I turned the doorknob; the inherent danger that lurked in the yard relied on my failure, just waiting to claim me as its next victim. I considered pounding on the door, but that would alert my parents that I had left the house and then I’d really be in deep shit.
I briefly glanced over my shoulder just as the hedges in my lawn kicked up in the wind, blowing freshly fallen leaves into a cyclone. I would’ve stayed to watch the beauty of it longer – if I wasn’t shaking so badly. The door felt as if it were made out of cement as I got it open. I threw my body against it to get it closed, afraid that my weight wouldn’t be enough to stop whatever was about to start pushing it open. I twisted the deadbolt until the lock clicked, not that I really thought the small lock or door was any match for what my imagination knew had chased me to my house. My chest heaved as I struggled to catch my breath with my back firmly pressed to the door waiting for something, anything.
My parents’ argument was still in full swing and it was apparent that neither of them noticed my little excursion into the neighborhood. Swallowing hard, I glanced out of the front windows into the yard, not really sure I was ready to see what was waiting for me. I was disappointed and relieved to see that the yard was empty and the hedges were ghostly still: no monsters, no demons, and thankfully no Mr. Johnson. I just ran all the way back to my house over nothing; hopefully, none of my neighbors saw me. Maybe Jill and I had watched one too many slasher movies this summer.
Laughing at myself, I took several deep breaths to get my heart to catch up with the rest of my body. My breathing was almost normal again when I realized the voices coming from the kitchen were different from any other petty argument they’ve had. I sprinted to the doorway just in time to see my father’s fist land squarely on my mother’s jaw line.
“Dad, NO!” I shouted when he started to step forward. Mom stood between us and pushed her weight against me trying to force me from the kitchen. “Stop. What have you done?” I screamed ignoring my mother’s firm grip. I was at least three inches taller than her and outweighed her by ten pounds. It would have been easy to push her out of my way.
My father slumped back onto one of the counters, as Mom whispered to me to go to my room. For some time I avoided looking into her eyes, but when I finally did I saw that we were both crying. The cheek beneath her left eye was already pink and swollen from the blow; I reached out and gently touched the spot with my fingertips, not sure it was real.
“Shhh …” My mother’s voice was almost a whisper as I started to talk again. “Go … go to your room now.” She turned to look at Dad; the counter was the only thing keeping him upright. I fought the urge to smack him by glaring at him instead; if I hit him then I would be no better than he was.
“Is he drunk?” I didn’t bother lowering my voice. I wanted him to be humiliated.
“Go to your room, now.” My mother’s blue eyes were unrelenting. She wasn’t up for my Joan of Arc routine tonight.
Scowling at my father, I pushed the earphones back into my ears and leapt up the stairs to