Page 1 of Bonded to The Boo Hag

Prologue

Gatlin

My twin sister lay in the hospital bed surrounded by tubes and wires hooked to an orchestra of beeping machines, so thin except for the swelling near her joints. Her long red hair had fallen out from chemo months ago, and now the cancer had spread from her bones to most of her vital organs. I was so afraid her brain was next.

She was twenty-four—God, we were only twenty-four fucking years old—and she should be finishing up her Masters in Folklore, not lying in a bed looking like Tommy Rawhide himself.

She stirred in her sleep, waking up slowly, a look of disorientation on her face.

“Hey, Gemmy,” I said softly, picking up her Augmented and Alternative Communication tablet and placing it on the bed so she could see the selections.

Gemma’s swollen fingers reached for the screen. “I want some water,” the mechanical woman prompted, and I worked to control my grimace at the sound. My sister has been hearing but non-speaking since infancy due to lack of muscle development. I missed seeing her fingers nimbly fly when she used American Sign Language, and the words of an impersonal machine were a poor substitute. I hated her AAC as much as I was thankful she had it.

“You got it.” I busied myself at the rolling tray at the end of her bed, pouring tepid water into a fleshy-pink cup that all hospitals seemed to have. I brought the water over to her, ready to give her a drink, but the defiance in her face had me stopping short of her lips.

She reached out for the cup, wincing at the effort, and I helped her grasp it and bring it to her mouth. She drank her fill, settling back on her pillows as comfortably as possible.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, setting the cup back on the rolling tray.

Her hands rose stiffly to her chest, her shoulders sagging as she drew them down, signing, “Tired.”

“I know; I’m sorry.” I watched as her eyes drifted shut. “I love you, and we are going to figure this out.”

She didn’t stir; she was already back asleep. Anger surged through my body as I watched her rest, her breath rattling in her chest. We had been inseparable as kids. Everywhere I went, she followed. She had always been shy, and I was always off looking for adventure with her trailing just behind with her notebook. But then we grew up, and everything changed. She enrolled in the local university to study her monsters and myths, and I struck off on my own to The Keys to study art. I felt guilty, leaving her to explore my passion, but she assured me staying home with Mom and Dad was where she needed to be. She was right; we needed time to discover ourselves as separate people. We did, and I believe we were thriving.

But our senior year, our parents died in a car crash. Not long after, Gemma confessed she had trouble sleeping at night because of a burning pain in her limbs. She had been ignoring it because, with enough painkillers, it wasn’t that bad. Except it was.

Tears of frustration filled my eyes, recalling how long we’ve been fighting this fucking disease—almost three years of appointments, medicines, and doctors.

Nothing was working. The cancer was too aggressive, and the other half of who I was, the last of my family, was dying. Tonight was the last time I would sit by and watch it happen.

I noted the time on my watch: ten minutes to midnight. Rising from my chair, I opened the window to Gemmy’s room on the tenth floor. The moon was full, but the stars were blotted out due to the light pollution. I stepped back, feeling the chill of late October. Suppressing a shiver, I went to the small linen closet in her hospital room to retrieve a cream-colored blanket.

“She’s beautiful,” a voice said, rich and melodic.

I pivoted, unsurprised at the intrusion of my guest. “She is.”

She stood by my sister’s bedside, every inch of her perfection. Her blood-red suit and black stilettos made her look like she just stepped out of a boardroom instead of off the window ledge. Long raven’s wing black hair fell to her waist in waves, and her unblemished bronze skin shone even in the pale light of the hospital’s fluorescents. She was the epitome of health, muscular yet curvy, her features strong but her silver eyes gentle.

I settled the blanket over my sister’s body, quashing the instinct to shiver.

My visitor turned, placing a gentle hand tipped in long black nails on my arm, and I repressed a quake of fear. Her features were too perfect, too uncanny valley for my fight-or-flight instincts to ignore.

Palmer Duvall dressed up as one of us, but she wasn’t human.

“I can give Gemma her first dose tonight, as agreed. I topped up before I came over. But afterwards…” She raised a perfectly shaped brow at me in anticipation.

I nodded.

“Gatlin,” she prompted.

At our meeting earlier this week, she had stressed the importance of verbal communication, and I felt the heat of embarrassment rise to my cheeks. “Yes, ma'am, if it helps you help her, you can ‘top up’ as much as you need from me.”

She chuckled low, a wistful sigh leaving her red-painted lips. “You say the most deliciously dangerous things. We will need to work on that, pet.”

She lowered the side rail on Gemmy’s hospital bed and sat next to her. Putting a hand on my sister's shoulder, she leaned forward and opened her mouth. Gold light exited her lips, curling through the air like a snake. The energy was lifeforce, she had explained earlier this week, and I watched in fascination as it coiled itself tightly and then struck, entering my sister via her nose and mouth. With a great gasp, my sister gulped the viscous energy until Ms. Duvall straightened and closed her mouth.

Gemma took a deep breath, the rattle in her lungs gone, her skin flush with more color than I had seen in months. I bit back a sob, the relief staggering.

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