Edge of Sanity: An Edge Novel Read online

  Praise for Shannon K. Butcher and the Sentinel Wars

  Dying Wish

  “[A] phenomenally dark and gritty series. . . . Ms. Butcher continues to deliver an emotionally dark, gritty, action-packed story that held me captive till the end. A fabulous blending of urban fantasy and paranormal romance . . . this book is an absolute whirlwind to read.”

  —The Book Pushers

  “This was truly a great story, with a lot of action . . . a great read, right from the start. Shannon K. Butcher does such a wonderful job hooking you into the story, into the lives of the men and women in this fantastic world. . . . If you have not started this series, please do not miss it.”

  —The Reading Cafe

  Running Scared

  “Running Scared is the third installment of the Sentinel Wars and a really great one at that!”

  —The Book Lush

  Finding the Lost

  “Exerts much the same appeal as Christine Feehan’s Carpathian series, what with tortured heroes, the necessity of finding love or facing a fate worse than death, hot lovemaking, and danger-filled adventure.”

  —Booklist

  “A terrific grim thriller with the romantic subplot playing a strong supporting role. The cast is powerful, as the audience will feel every emotion that Andra feels, from fear for her sister to fear for her falling in love. Finding the Lost is a dark tale, as Shannon K. Butcher paints a forbidding, gloomy landscape in which an ancient war between humanity’s guardians and their nasty adversaries heats up.”

  —Alternative Worlds

  “A very entertaining read. . . . The ending was a great cliff-hanger and I can’t wait to read the next book in this series. . . . A fast-paced story with great action scenes and lots of hot romance.”

  —The Book Lush

  “Butcher’s paranormal reality is dark and gritty in this second Sentinel Wars installment. What makes this story so gripping is the seamlessly delivered hard-hitting action and wrenching emotions. Butcher is a major talent in the making.”

  —Romantic Times

  Burning Alive

  “Starts off with nonstop action. Readers will race through the pages, only to reread the entire novel to capture every little detail . . . a promising start for a new voice in urban fantasy/paranormal romance. I look forward to the next installment.”

  —A Romance Review (5 Roses)

  “This first book of the Sentinel Wars whets your appetite for the rest of the books in the series. Ms. Butcher is carving her way onto the bestseller lists with this phenomenal, nonstop ride that will have you preordering the second book the minute you put this one down.”

  —Affaire de Coeur (5 Stars)

  “Absorbing. . . . Butcher skillfully balances erotic, tender interactions with Helen’s worries, and intriguing secondary characters further enhance the unusual premise. Fans of Butcher’s romantic suspense novels will enjoy her turn toward the paranormal.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Ms. Butcher offers fresh and delightfully creative elements in this paranormal romance, keeping readers engaged as the story unfolds. Burning Alive is a well-crafted beginning to this exciting new series, and will have fans of the genre coming back for the next adventure in the Sentinel Wars.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “An exciting romantic urban fantasy. . . . Shannon K. Butcher adds her trademark suspense with plenty of tension and danger to the mix of a terrific paranormal thriller.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Burning Alive is Shannon K. Butcher’s first foray into paranormal romance and what a doozy it is! Filled with sizzling love scenes, great storytelling, and action galore, fans of paranormal romance will rejoice to have Ms. Butcher finally join the genre!”

  —ParaNormal Romance

  “A different twist on the paranormal genre. . . . Overall, Shannon K. Butcher has done a good job with Burning Alive, and I will definitely be reading the next in the series.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  THE EDGE NOVELS

  Razor’s Edge

  Living on the Edge

  NOVELS OF THE SENTINEL WARS

  Dying Wish

  Living Nightmare

  Running Scared

  Finding the Lost

  Burning Alive

  Blood Hunt

  EDGE OF SANITY

  AN EDGE NOVEL

  SHANNON K. BUTCHER

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, December 2012

  Copyright © Shannon K. Butcher, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do(USl not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  For April Fowler,

  who has done more for me than I’ll ever deserve

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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 Sevente LT nen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Special excerpt from Falling Blind<
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  Chapter One

  It was the blood that woke him.

  Clay Marshall’s fingers were glued together, sticky and itching where the blood had dried. The heavy, metallic smell of it clogged his nose, choking him with the stench of violence.

  He stared at his dirty hands, disoriented and numb from shock. Fatigue dragged at his bones. Pain pounded deep inside his skull, worse than any hangover.

  The water stain on the ceiling was a familiar comfort, telling him he was in his own bed. Now, if he could only remember how he’d gotten here.

  As the fog of sleep cleared, the meaning of the blood began to take hold. Concern gnawed at the edges of his numb haze, nibbling away at the false sense of calm. Reality squeezed around him, shoving out his breath like a giant boa constrictor.

  Clay sat up, trying to control the fear before it became full-blown panic. His clothes were stiff and dark with drying blood, as if someone had splashed a bucket of it down his front. He searched for the source of the blood, seeking out the kind of physical pain this much blood loss would create.

  He ripped off his shirt and jeans, only to find the skin beneath whole. His sheets were stained, but there was no pool lying where he’d been. Those smears were only from contact with his clothes.

  Clay rushed to the bathroom on shaky legs and peered into the full-length mirror on the back of t athe door. No cuts. No gashes. Only a collage of bruises of varying ages and a body that was so thin he barely recognized it.

  The blood wasn’t his, and yet he could find no relief in that knowledge. It had to belong to someone.

  The need to scrub it away arose, compelling him to stumble into the shower. Cold water hit him hard, driving the air from his lungs before it slowly warmed. He lathered himself from head to toe, watching in disgust as the rusty suds spiraled down the drain.

  Even though the hot water stung, he still felt detached from the world, as though he were covered by a thick layer of foam, preventing anything from really reaching him. His head was clouded with confusion—so much so that he was only just now realizing that he was confused.

  He dried off and headed for his kitchen, where the coffee lived. After three cups and twenty minutes, Clay’s brain finally began to function. And with that relative clarity of thought came fear.

  There were stains on his floor in the shape of his boots, leading from the kitchen door all the way to his bedroom. He followed them to where the bloody pile of clothes lay on the rug.

  There was even more blood on them than he’d imagined. So much, he knew someone had to be dead. The question was who? And whether Clay had been the one to kill them.

  A sick sense of dread settled over him, making the coffee in his stomach churn.

  He had no memories of last night; he couldn’t remember anything since lunch yesterday. The sun was streaming in through the windows, but as hard as he tried, there was simply a gaping black hole where the missing time should have been, as if he’d been asleep since then.

  The blood proved otherwise.

  Clay turned on the local news and barely breathed as the anchor moved from one story to the next. He wasn’t sure what he expected to hear—reports of a building collapse or a giant pileup on I-35, maybe—but he knew what he feared: murder.

  His hand shook as he surfed from one station to the next, seeking some sign of what he’d done. When they started repeating the same stories, he wasn’t sure whether he was more relieved or scared. Maybe he hadn’t hurt anyone. Maybe he’d saved someone’s life and gotten them medical attention. Then again, maybe they just hadn’t found the body yet. Or bodies.

  This wasn’t the first time Clay had woken up with blood on his hands, but he had no way of figuring out how to make it be the last time. The only person he could trust was his best friend, Mira. She was like a sister to him, and he couldn’t stand the idea of burdening her with his problems.

  Still, if anyone could help him solve the mystery, she could.

  Clay dug his cell phone out of his bloody jeans and wiped it clean before dialing Mira.

  Her voice was so cheerful and bright, it hurt his head. “Good morning, Clay. You’re up early.”

  “Heya, squirt. I need a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “I need to know if anyone in the area was killed last night.”

  The line went silent for a minute. “Uh . . . what?”

  He hated lying to her, but there was no other way. “I saw a ton of blood on the sidewalk outside a club. I was wondering if anyone was murdered. Can you find out?”

  “Where was it?”

  Shit. He hadn’t been thinking clearly enough to consider even such a simple question. He was even worse off in the mental department than he’d thought. “I don’t remember. I was drunk.”

  “Clay,” she said in that voice that told him she knew he was lying. “What’s really going on?”

  “Can you find out or not?”

  She let out a heavy sigh. They’d been friends a long time—since they were kids—and he was not easy on his friends. Especially Mira.

  “Hold on.” Disappointment weighed on her voice.

  Clay heard the clicking of keys in the background before she came back on the line. “There was a drug-related shooting that killed three. One fatal car accident. Three deaths from natural causes. That’s all I could find.”

  “Any John or Jane Does?”

  “You want me to hack into the morgue? That’s a little dark, even for you. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Really. Don’t worry.”

  “How can I not worry? You sound awful. Did something happen?”

  The lie nearly choked him. “No. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  “You’re not a bother, Clay. You know I love you. Whatever you need, I’m there, okay?”

  An unexpected spurt of emotion clogged his throat. She was the only person in the world he really cared about. He didn’t know why she stuck with him when he was such a mess, but he was glad she did. “I love you, too, squirt.”

  “Then let me help you. The headaches, the blackouts—you need help.”

  The pile of bloody clothes popped into his mind, staring at him in accusation. Until he figured out what was going on, he wasn’t safe to be around. “I’ll be fine. But I’m not feeling so great, so I’m taking a sick day. Will you let Bella know?”

  “Sure. Get some rest and call me if you need anything, okay?”

  “I will,” he lied.

  * * *

  Mira hung up the phone feeling sick to her stomach. Clay was getting worse. The bruises, the split knuckles, the dislocated joints. And now he wanted her to check death records? Even if her IQ had been co. Q had but in half, she would have been able to figure out what that meant.

  He thought he’d killed someone.

  Clay kept pushing her away, making up reasons why they could no longer hang out together. The more she tried to help, the harder he pushed.

  If he wouldn’t let her help him, she had to find someone who could. And there was only one man Mira knew who had even a chance at getting through Clay’s thick skull.

  What she was about to do would piss off her best friend, but that was just too bad. She owed him her life—even if he didn’t remember—and if she had to suffer through his anger, so be it.

  With her decision made, she picked up the phone.

  Chapter Two

  Clay had just shoved the last of the bloody fabric into a trash bag when his doorbell rang. He took his time washing his hands, hoping whomever it was would just go the hell away.

  The chime rang again, followed closely by a sharp knock.

  “I know you’re in there,” came a man’s calm voice. “Mira called me.”

  Payton Bainbridge. His boss’s right-hand man and an all-around buttinski.

  “Go away,” called Clay.

  “Not going to happen. Open the door.”

  “I’m sick.” He forced out a fake cough to add texture to the lie.

  Payton’
s disbelieving tone said he wasn’t buying Clay’s story. “I’m immune. Open the door.”

  The sooner he got this over with, the sooner Payton would leave and shove his nose into someone else’s business.

  Clay unbolted the triple-locked door and let the older man in.

  Payton was in his late fifties, with the suave kind of good looks that made younger women take notice. Or maybe it was simply his ridiculously expensive suits that spoke to them. He walked in, spine straight, hair perfect, suit without a single wrinkle, looking as if he’d just come from one of those celebrity makeovers. His pale eyes moved over Clay’s rumpled clothes and mussed hair, but rather than disdain for Clay’s lack of grooming, there was guilt in his eyes—as if he were somehow responsible for the way Clay looked.

  “You need a doctor.” Payton shut and locked the door behind him, dimming Clay’s already dingy living room.

  “I’m not that sick. Nothing a bit of rest and some chicken soup can’t cure.”

  “You’re favoring your left knee and hunching over as if your ribs ache. No amount of soup will fix that. You need to be X-rayed for broken bones.”

  Payton had looked at Clay for all of ten seconds and seen that? Shit. That meant he was going to have to take more time off work than just a day.

  Clay straightened up, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ribs and shoulder. “My bones are fine.”

  Payton pushed past him and walked into the kitchen like he owned the place. “Mind if I make coffee?”

  “You won’t be here long enough to drink it.”

  The older man ignored him and went about searching Clay’s cabinets, putting a pot of coffee on. “Mira says you’re in trouble.”

  “Mira is wrong. Everything is fine.”

  “Your bruises say you’re lying. Judging by the color palette you’ve got going there, you’ve been injured at least three times in the past two weeks.”

  “I joined a fight club. I would have told you, but you know the first rule of fight club . . .”

  Payton turned around, his face tight with anger and something else Clay couldn’t name. “This isn’t a joke. She said you were asking about dead bodies.”