Page 1 of Tears of Ruin

Chapter One

Noam

If I breathe, I’m dead.

Even now, I could hear my father, Martin, talking with the demon in the kitchen. Only I’d just left the room and Martin had been alone. Yet, I distinctly heard two different voices.

For three days Martin had been meeting with a stranger, Silo, at our home, growing quiet whenever I entered the room. But I’d heard snippets of their conversation, and it wasn’t about lawn care or some sport.

It was much more terrifying than stinky fertilizer or my dad losing some bet he’d made, and he’d made a lot of losing bets.

He had to be addicted to giving away his money, because he constantly “donated” large sums to those gambling websites. Martin might’ve treated me like I was an idiot most of my life, but I was smart enough to know what he was up to.

Except at the moment. I didn’t know his endgame, and that petrified me.

My thoughts snapped back to the present when I heard a floorboard creaking. Martin… Silo—whoever my dad was at the moment—was actively searching for me. If he found me, I wasn’t sure what would happen.

I’d seen the smoke enter Martin.

He’d heard my gasp as I ran.

My hand shook as I pressed it against my mouth. My heart raced, beating so fast I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. The quieter I tried to be, the more paranoid I became that even a single breath was too loud.

But I couldn’t stay hidden. If I didn’t move, he would find me. Martin was too good at hide and seek, only he’d never played it for fun.

Instinct tried to paralyze me, whispering that if I stayed in my closet I would be safe.

A complete lie and something that hadn’t worked for me so far.

Just move, just move, just move.

Dropping my hand, I opened my mouth wide, forcing my breath out as softly as possible.

Then I eased my closet door open. From where I stood, my room was empty, but the oppressing feeling of being hunted, of not knowing if it was Martin or the demon after me, strangled my lungs.

Sweat slid over my scalp, dampened my forehead, coated me entirely as I crept forward. I couldn’t even gather enough moisture in my mouth to swallow.

My escape might’ve gone a little faster if I’d cleaned my room. I would’ve been able to fix the problem if Martin/Silo would call a twenty-minute time-out.

Not happening.

Never had when it came to my father.

I pursed my lips like I was about to whistle but blew out slow breaths as I navigated around tossed-aside shoes, a stack of records I’d meant to organize and put away, and balls of yarn I’d laid out so I could decide what color to make my scarf. It was summer, but as badly as I knitted, I would need a head start.

When I finally reached my bedroom door, I froze at the sound of Martin’s cough. He’d smoked as far back as I could remember, stinking up the house with the nasty odor. One time, when I was nine,I tried to convince him to quit, listing all the negative effects that smoking cigarettes had on his body.

He'd shown me the negative effect of lecturing him.

My heart in my throat, I strained to listen, hoping I heard him somewhere farther away. The only reason he hadn’t checked my bedroom yet was because I’d never hidden in it when he was after me. I always thought it would be too obvious, so I’d found other places to hide.

The benefit of outthinking the storm? For now, he wasn’t looking for me here. But my temporary reprieve would be ripped from under me if I didn’t get past him and out of the house.

As I reached for the door handle, I noticed how badly my hand shook.

You can do this. Just pretend this is a game so you can calm down. Panic is your enemy.

A mantra I’d recited for years.

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