The Heir

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people,

  places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  The Heir

  First edition. November 13, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Kayla Eshbaugh.

  Written by Kayla Eshbaugh.

  Published by Kayla Eshbaugh, 2019.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Heir (The Heir Series, #1)

  The End

  Clock

  Princes and Knights

  Who

  Dandelion

  Flower Shop

  Lavender Rose

  Overheard

  First Day

  The notebook

  Pool Party

  Shad

  Ryker

  Snake

  Watch

  Date

  Friendship

  Bridge

  Gone

  The Crystal

  Other

  Lost

  The Truth

  Search

  The Cave

  Wrong Beginning

  Shattered Heir

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Robert,

  Thank you for buying me soft tacos after school, picking me flowers on your paper route and for making me fall in love with the one person I thought I never would;

  you.

  The End

  "I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT they are really gone," I whispered, almost too quietly to be heard. Ryker held out his strong arms, and I collapsed into him, my body no longer able to support itself. His warmth pulled me in and anchored me to the hospital bed. I was sure that my sobs could be heard down the cool, long, and twisted hospital corridors. I could not rid myself of the pain.

  Misery twisted itself around and curled into my heart, taking away the warmth from within me. Misery and despair snaked its way tighter and tighter, making each sob and each breath I took more and more of a challenge. I didn't know until that moment that misery was a snake; it was. Misery was a cold-blooded snake that seemed to be slowly draining the blood and warmth from me as its hold wound tighter and tighter around my crucial and most vital organ. I waited for the cold blooded reptile to strike, waited for the venom to come to pinch and sting. I waited for the numbness to drag me into the darkness, bringing me to the ones I lost, the ones I love. I welcomed it, even wanted it at one point, thinking that it would be easier to be in darkness than to live with the misery of my life.

  Yes, misery was indeed a snake, a wicked, black, slimy snake that had no pity on its prey. It was a snake that teased with its antidote of venom that could numb, with the coils that could cut off the breath that I had—entirely. Misery made itself a home there within me with no promise of freedom from the pain I endured. The snake would never bite; he never did anything except twist himself around my heart, draining all the warmth and life from me, ever so slowly. It was just constricting enough to restrict each breath but not freeing enough to give any peace at all—not even the peace of a numb, final end.

  “Oh, Emma, I know—I know.” His voice was deep. His arms held up my body. He held me in that hospital room for a long time. The news of death whispered around me and haunted my every thought. As much as I tried to convince myself that it wasn't real, that it was not my life, a sickening feeling in the depths of my soul brought me to the reality that, yes, indeed, it was very much my life. Ryker’s hands stroked my hair, and I balled like a newborn baby in his arms. For a few moments, there in the warmth of his embrace, I felt a small amount of peace, but that peace disappeared as soon as his arms moved away from me, my body fading from a warm summer’s day to a cold winter’s night.

  I awoke in my hospital bed, sometime after the sobs had exhausted me completely. Ryker was beside me, his arm wrapped around me. His body was very close to mine but our bodies did not touch. It wasn't enough; I was cold from the inside out, and it seemed as if ice was making a home on the surface of my skin, and it reached into the very depths of me. I moved my body, making my back push against his chest. Warmth flowed through me, and I wiped my eyes, searching for the forgotten tears that I had shed hours before I passed out.

  “Em?” Ryker’s groggy, uneven voice whispered behind me. He squeezed my hand, and heat pulsed through me, sending the sun into my cloudy, frosted night. I turned and rested my head on his chest, not caring about anything else but the need to be warmed—to feel him near me. He rested his chin on my head.

  “Thank you, Ry. Thank you for not leaving me.” I tried to stop the tear that spilled from my eye, but I could not contain it.

  Ryker reached over and brushed my cheek, freeing me from that small burden. “Em, there is no other place for me to be right now—only with you.” His voice was tender, and I watched his warm blue eyes as they looked into mine. They reflected so many emotions back at me: sorrow, sadness, fear, shame, and longing.

  “I just—” I tried to express in words how unfair life was, how it all had to be a sick joke, that the previous night was just a nightmare and that it wasn't—no, it couldn’t actually be real, I told myself.

  “I wish I could tell you—” He paused and shook his head. I watched as a tear also dropped from his eye. “—that we are not in a hospital bed and that—that you’re—”

  I put a finger to his lips. “Don't say it yet, Ry. I need time before you say the words. If you say them, then it really becomes real.”

  He smiled at me sadly and nodded. “I am here for you, Em. I will do whatever you want me to do.”

  “Please, Ry. Just hold me. I need you to never let me go.” I scooted my body even closer to him, my legs meeting his legs, my face a mere inch from his face. I was warm; I could feel the heat radiating off of him: a blazing fire, and I needed it more than I needed to breathe.

  “Nothing could move me from this spot, Em—nothing.” And nothing did. He held me for hours, was with me for days as I cried and cried and cried.

  My aunt became my guardian soon after the crash. After my recovery in the hospital, everyone talked about the accident. Yes, that was what it was called: an accident. For some reason, calling their last breaths, their last moments an accident made me angry. It wasn't as if a glass of milk had spilled on someone's shirt or a vase was pushed off a shelf and shattered—although I did feel like a broken vase, with a hundred shattered pieces on the floor—never to be the same again. Even if expert hands and precision gluing, put my pieces back together, I knew I could never be restored.

  Mary, my aunt and now my guardian, had always been a big part of my life. She was often over for family dinners, Christmases, and Thanksgivings. Life had been turned upside-down, of course, and I could not imagine having any type of celebration ever again. Aunt Mary was very similar to my mother. Not only was she beautiful, sweet, and kind, she also sounded like her. That similarity brought me both peace and despair at different times.

  Mary ran a small flower shop in our town and had the most loyal customers. I had spent many days there, smelling the flowers and arranging bridal bouquets with her. Roses always were my favorite. I even recalled a time when my father told me that the city of Roseville, where we lived, was named for me and for my pure obsession and love of roses. I was eight, so I believed him, of course. I didn't think after that day that I could ever look at a rose again without thinking of my father.

  I loved the smells of Mary’s flower shop and the joy that seemed to radiate from the core of that building’s skeletal, wooden structure, a structure that seemed as hauntingly cheerful within its walls as it was without. The golden, yellow walls, covering up the structure’s bones, radiated sunshine and happiness and warmth. I was glad I still had that place; I was glad that I had Mary. I thanked the heavens that I had
family. I guess I should have been more thankful at that one bright spot in the darkness, like one flickering star on the blackest of nights, but it was difficult to see it for a while without a telescope. I wanted things to stop changing. I wished for so many things to go back to the way they had been. I had always expected and wanted so much out of life. Why has this happened? Why has this happened—to me? Would I ever know? I could not let myself think like that. I told myself: Your parents are dead, and you need to accept that.

  The funeral was one day that I wished I could forget. I wished it could be wiped from my memory. My house was stuffed full of people, many of them I had never met before, and all of them told me over and over again how sorry they were for me and how hard it must be. Well, I thought to myself, if they didn’t remind me every five seconds how tragic my loss is, it might be a little easier. And no matter the sorrow I felt or the sadness that ached inside me, a new feeling emerged. A chill ran down my spine every time I felt it, the odd feeling of being looked at as if my soul was exposed. I shuddered, and I looked, seeing eyes locked onto me, pitying me, eyes dripping with water, crying for me, red noses wiped, white tissues clutched in shaking hands, and whispers that spoke of me: “Poor little Emma.” I shook myself and tried to ignore everyone, but it wasn't easy. I couldn’t un-hear the whispers or un-see the blurry eyes and the hands that clutched tissues. The only person I wanted with me was Ryker. He held my hand through the entire ceremony—that is, when he was not holding me to keep me from collapsing. I could not seem to get enough warmth or strength on my own anymore.

  I left the house for the evening after most people had gone home. I rushed out the back door, my bare feet feeling the wet grass beneath them as I walked.

  "You must be Emma." I stopped walking to look over my shoulder. Behind me stood a tall figure, just another guest I didn't know.

  "I am." I whispered letting a tear drop from my eye and glide down my face.

  "You are wearing blue to a funeral, I have never seen that done before,” his voice seemed familiar as he spoke.

  "Blue was my mother’s favorite color."

  "So it was to honor her?"

  "Yes," I spoke barely above a whisper.

  "Death is a difficult thing. It snakes its way inside of you until you are empty and as cold as ice." It was pure relief to have someone speak as if they understood the pain and didn’t just pity me. How could a complete stranger make me feel such comfort in my sorrow?

  “I do not have a heart anymore, I am afraid.”

  “When you lose your heart, sometimes, you find your soul,” he whispered.

  “I'm sorry, but I came out here—”

  “To get away?” he asked as he turned his head to the starlit sky.

  “Yes. My father, he loved the stars. They make me feel close to him,” I spoke reverently, barely above a whisper. I noticed that the boy turned his face, still in shadow, but I could just barely make out in the moonlight that he had dark hair.

  “I'm sure he did. He passed that love on to you?”

  “Yes,” I faintly responded, holding back tears, wishing he would leave so I could be alone, and yet wanting him to stay so I wouldn’t feel like the only person in existence with such deep and acute sorrow. The way he talked about death made me believe that this stranger had felt the sting of it—which brought me a strange relief that I didn’t want to be without.

  “Well, I will leave you to your thoughts, Emma. We are all searching for something, and I truly hope you find what you are looking for.”

  I didn't speak as I watched him walk away back towards the house. I sank to my knees as I gripped the grass in my hands. I was alone, and it didn't feel as good as I had hoped it would when I initially ran from the house.

  I cried out to the stars that night. Looking at them brought me such peace and clarity. It was as if I could imagine my father there, sitting in the grass right beside me. I could see his tanned hands and rough skin gathering up blades of grass. He always did that, searching for the largest blade he could find, and once he did, he would place it between his two thumbs and blow, making a loud whistle. I had tried so hard as a little girl to make it work, and it took me an entire summer to achieve a strong whistle with a blade of grass.

  “WHAT IS THAT ONE, DADDY? It is always the brightest,” my small little six year old voice asked. He placed his blades of grass down and leaned over my head.

  “Oh, that one is my favorite one,” he spoke in a hushed tone.

  “Really?”

  He nodded as he pulled a blade from his discarded grass pile and whistled with it.

  “That is the north star,” he said after his whistle was quiet in the evening air.

  “I think I like that one best,” I responded. I looked into his green eyes, which were the same color as my own. As music played around us, I remembered a small smile had crawled upon my face. I listened to the familiar tune, and closed my eyes; it was such a beautiful song. When was the last time I had heard that song? I asked myself in the middle of my reflection. I knew that my father had loved that song, but somehow, I had forgotten all about its existence.

  Then, abruptly in my memory, the music stopped. I watched a frown appeared on his face. But in the next moment, he put his smile back on and suddenly lunged at me, and I laughed as he tickled me.

  “It is time for bed or the tickle-monster will get you!” he laughed. I screamed and ran to the house as he trailed behind me slowly, ever watching the sky. I could almost hear his low laugh, smell the cool breeze, and hear the peaceful melody of his favorite song on that night so long ago—a night when all was right in my world.

  I STARED UP AT THOSE same stars, their gleaming so small yet visible. My thoughts were still of my father, of all the stories he had read to me, stories about wishing on stars and about dreams coming true.

  “There you are, Em,” I heard Ryker’s voice from behind me. I jumped in surprise and broke my thoughts away from my past, my old life where I had loving parents.

  “I am, unfortunately, still here,” I said sadly, trying not to sound super depressed, only doing a horrible job at it.

  “Em—”

  “Ry, I just—” I turned to him and reached for his hand. “I hate living without them. Kids are not supposed to lose their parents before they grow up. It just isn’t fair. I should have gone with them; I should be dead, too.”

  “Emma, what are you talking about? Your parents wanted you to live. I am sure they did all they could to protect you. They are smiling down now, knowing that you live on.”

  “Ryker, I just—I don't want to be here without them.”

  “I know, Emma. I know. Believe me, I miss them, too. They were like family to me, and the thought of never hearing your dad scold me for something or of your mom never giving another one of her comforting hugs breaks my heart. But they want you to live, Em.”

  “I am so mad at them,” I whispered, not sure where that came from. Could you be mad at the dead? Will I get struck by lightning for speaking ill of the dead? Eerily, that thought didn't make me worried but ready to take the jolt of lightning and join my parents.

  “Of course, you are,” Ryker agreed, making me feel less like a heathen. “You feel abandoned, but they didn't leave you by choice, Em. Remember that.”

  “Yes, but where they went, I—I can’t follow.” I wiped my eyes, peering back up into the night sky. Ryker was right beside me a few moments later, and his hand found mine—and that was the first time I realized that Ryker’s touch didn't always have the warmth and heat I longed for. As we stood there looking at the stars, I was hollow, cold, frozen, lost, and alone. Even with my best friend right beside me, misery snaked within me and curled around my hollow insides.

  Ryker cleared his throat after what felt like an eternity of silence.

  “It was all nicely done today, a great honor to them.”

  I nodded.

  “I am here for you, Em. Tell me what you need, and I will do it.” He lifted our tangled hand
s to his other hand, and clasped mine tightly in both of his.

  “I need you, Ry, but I am done with all of them in there.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “Then I am all yours,” he said with a wink.

  “Do you think there are other people up there?” I asked, motioning with my head at the stars.

  His stance grew rigid as if I had shocked him with my question.

  “Why do you ask that, Em?” His unease seemed to subside as his body again relaxed by my side.

  “Father, he said he believed there were other people out there, people like us. Do you think they will grant me a wish?”

  “Your father was a wise man. I think he knows more than anyone I know. If he thought there is life in space, I am sure there is.”

  The North Star was above me. It shined brightest in all its wishing glory. I wished then, that very night when I had to lay my parents to rest in the dark, cold earth. I wished that somehow I could be stronger, that I could handle the terribly inadequate hand of cards that life had dealt to me, or if not, that I could be out of the game altogether.

  Clock

  FOUR MONTHS PASSED. It was the longest four months of my life. Nothing went back to normal; nothing was normal about losing my parents, but things found a rhythm. Mary worked. I went to school, and I survived. That had been my goal for the previous four months—to survive. I would never forget the horror of that night and the loss that continued to slither into my very being, but I knew I would still live—even if it was only for them.

  I awoke one morning to the phone ringing; I could hear it from my bedroom. I looked at my digital alarm clock, aware that it was Saturday, but I wanted to know the time. It was seven in the morning. I covered my head with a pillow and groaned. I was sure that eventually, Mary would get it; she was, after all, home all day Saturdays, or had been for the past few months. I wondered if maybe she had her schedule at the Rose Village changed. That could be the reason she was not answering; maybe she wasn't home. The ringing continued on and on; it was an old phone without an answering machine. My father had insisted that we always had a landline for emergencies. I guess it was good for backup if one of our cells died and if we really needed to call someone, but why wouldn't we charge our phones? If the power went out, would phones still work? Why was I thinking about that? It was too early in the morning, and still the phone rang on. Why was Mary not answering the phone? She must be working. I sat up as I moved the pillow from my face. The constant ringing made my head pound. I felt like I had been hit over the head with a baseball bat; I ached all over. Is there some kind of disease that people get after their loved ones die that makes them lose their minds, or is that just sorrow? Finally, I stood up and walked into the living room with a loud shuffle. I grabbed the phone and rudely answered.