PROLOGUE
A gift is something freely given with no expectation of payment in return.
I do not call it a gift. I call it a burden.
I lose a bit of my soul every time I watch someone die.
I descend a step further into hell whenever I choose my life over theirs.
It is not a gift; it is a curse.
My guilt haunts me and the phantoms in my dreams don't care.
They blame me and condemn me and I do not make excuses.
I am Jane. This is my story.
Chapter 1
A dull thud pulsed in the back of my head as I ran my palm across my face, trying to wipe away the confusion. I squinted my eyes as the first rays of dawn peeked through the tacky polyester curtains. I smelled sweat and sex and felt the cheap sheets stretched across my naked body. I closed my eyes and listened to the soft snore of the man beside me. I knew I needed a Gatorade and some ibuprofen. I swallowed the sour taste in my mouth which begged me to brush my teeth. I slipped carefully out of the bed, easing off the mattress, hoping he would stay asleep.
As I crept toward the bathroom I grabbed my clothes off the floor. It took me a minute to retrieve them all, strewn about the motel room. I tiptoed, embarrassed and amused in my semi-conscious state, the scenes from the night before crashing into my pounding skull. Part of me wanted to climb back into bed with him, to arch my back in euphoria again, but I had to get out of there and get on the road. I threw on a pair of jeans and the shirt from the night before, then washed my face and brushed my teeth. I rinsed my hands and ran them through my short, light brown hair. For a moment, I gazed at myself in the mirror. I had to stop doing this shit. I looked like hell.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, my eyes fixed on him, still unconscious and tangled in the sheets. The corner of my mouth turned up in a smile for a moment, but I forced it to retreat. I snatched my backpack and laptop case, grateful that I packed light. I gingerly turned the lock and opened the door, wincing at the squeak. I glanced over at Dean, still asleep, before I stepped out the door, pulling it closed gently.
"Shit." I pulled my car keys out of my jeans pocket and stared at them in my open palm. They looked like spares, two lonely Briggs and Stratton keys connected with a single ring. I had no home, so I needed no house keys and the lack of a key chain kept them slim in my front pocket. I scanned the parking lot, hoping to see Marie, though I was already sure I left my her parked outside the bar downtown. I could call a cab, but didn't want to deal with the smug look of the driver as he drove me from the motel back to the bar. I groaned and pulled my black wayfarer sunglasses out of the front pocket of my backpack, then trudged toward the street.
Twenty minutes later, I cruised up Highway 183. I hated Kansas and was glad to leave. I was halfway through my first Gatorade, trying to rehydrate before I picked up my stainless steel coffee tumbler. The ibuprofen was starting to work, but I knew part of the ache in my head was from lack of caffeine. First, I had to take care of my stomach. I reached over and popped open the plastic container beside me. As I peeled off the top of the egg croissant, I grimaced, then threw the sausage patty out the window.
As I choked down the sandwich, I kept running through the events of the past two days. I knew it was bound to happen, eventually. For almost eight years, I had crisscrossed the Midwest, hunting, healing, bringing back the dead. With Bobby's help, I had skillfully avoided the brothers. The crotchety old man was adamant that I should never meet them. When they called, he used to scold me as he rushed me out of his house, "You have enough problems without those idjits getting you in trouble." But Bobby was gone and so was my fear of disappointing him.
He taught me to watch for them, to abandon any job if I saw the black Impala ominously pull into town. A handful of times, I threw my backpack in the trunk of my 1967 Madeira maroon Camaro and hit the road when I spied Dean's car. More than once, I had already found the supe I was searching for, so I cast it away and left them with the ghost of a case which no longer existed. I often wondered what they thought of that.
Four days ago, I ignored the rules of my cranky, almost-father. Maybe it's because he's dead.