Mercy's Angels Box Set (Mercy's Angel #1-3) Read online

  Mercy’s Angels

  Saving Ella – Book 1

  Fighting Back – Book 2

  Tortured Soul – Book 3

  Saving Ella

  Mercy’s Angels Book 1

  Kirsty Dallas

  Copyright © 2013 by Kirsty Dallas

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and teasers.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2014 by Graphics Covered

  Editing by Ami Johnson

  A note from the author

  My debut novel, Saving Ella, was a healing process for me. As a survivor of domestic abuse I experienced the fear of a volatile relationship and lived with the aftermath for a long time before I really began to feel ‘safe’. Loud noises upset me, arguments made me feel sick, the sound of flesh hitting flesh almost threw me into a panic attack. Violence at the hands of someone who is meant to protect you and love you has a way of marking your soul and that mark will stay with you forever. But, it’s a mark that over time becomes faint, healed, always present but having lost the pain of when it was first put there. I can’t even begin to fathom how we can turn this world around and allow women to feel their real worth, and men to understand that worth. Domestic abuse doesn’t touch everyone, but it touches too many and it does so in all ethnicities, in men, women and children. Mothers and fathers need to teach their little girls not to accept anything less than unconditional love and protection, and their little boys to give that unconditional love and protection.

  “Any man can hit a woman, it takes a real man to protect her”

  Prologue

  “Dadddyyyyyyy!” The scream that came from my mouth shocked even me; it sounded terrified, more animal than human. Tears streamed down my face, my wide eyes glued to my unresponsive dad. I reached for him with hands that shook uncontrollably no matter how much I willed them to be still. I nudged and pushed at my dad begging him to open those dark chocolate eyes and smile. This had to be a joke...a cruel, horrible joke. Daddy didn't play those sorts of jokes and that's how I knew this was real.

  “Please daddy, please, please, please wake up" I begged. His skin was clammy and cold, and no matter how much I shoved his limp body, he didn't open his eyes. My heart was beating too hard and too fast as I looked around the small kitchen for help I knew wasn't there. My mother had been gone for three days and wouldn't be home until this evening. Suddenly my mind that had been a scrambled mess of terror became startlingly clear…phone! I scrambled to my feet slipping on the milk that flowed like a white river from the carton on the floor. I headed straight for the phone's base where the handset should have been cradled, which, of course, it wasn't. I clumsily pressed the button to find the handset, forcing myself to be still and listen for the beep, beep, beep of the lost phone. It wasn't in the kitchen or the living room. I didn't want to leave my dad alone on the floor; I wanted to comfort him, hold his hand and let him know everything would be alright. Ambulance first, comfort second I rationalized. Casting a hopeless glance back to my dad, I ran down the hall recognizing the distant call of the elusive phone. A whimper escaped my lips as I stuck my head in my room. Not there. Our small house had never felt so big and endless, the hallway a continuous gallery of photos and memories that were currently no more than an irritating blur, a taunt of happy memories that I somehow knew were coming to an end. Finally reaching the door to my parent's room, I flung it open where the sound became louder. There, on my mother's perfectly tidy, perfectly delicate little dresser sat the little white device, flashing and beeping with impatience. I grabbed the phone and fumbled trying to find the buttons through a haze of watery tears. My heart still pounded so hard it hurt as I ran back into the kitchen, to the side of my dad's still body on the cold, hard floor. I almost missed the calm, resolute voice that answered, the words twisted into a garbled mess. 'Emergency' was the only word that registered.

  I sobbed uncontrollably now. “M-My dad, he w-won’t wake up.” The woman on the other end of the phone was painfully controlled.

  “What is your address sweetheart?”

  I tried to clear the panic in my mind and think. Address, address?

  “20 Pine Hill Road Dunston” I spoke so fast I was surprised the woman on the other end of the phone could understand. I held my dad’s limp hand tightly now barely noticing the unrelenting tears that wet my face.

  “Can you tell me if your dad is injured?” The composed voice on the phone asked. I looked at him carefully. He seemed so peaceful, like he was only sleeping.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay sweetheart. The ambulance is on its way, they will be there soon. I’m going to stay on the phone with you until they get there. What’s your name?”

  “Ella,” I sobbed, wishing, praying for the angelic sound of sirens that would soon be approaching our home.

  “Okay Ella, I’m Sally. Are you home alone with your daddy?”

  "Yes," I whispered. "Mom is away, she won't be home till tonight." Mom was always away or out with her friends. In fact, it had been almost a week since I had last had a conversation with her. She wasn't much for idle chit chat with a thirteen-year-old who had no interest in day spa's or shopping.

  "Okay, I want you to do something for me, Ella. I want you to see if your dad is breathing, watch his chest and see if it goes up and down. Can you do that for me?"

  My eyes immediately shot to dad’s chest. I had to drop his hand so I could wipe away the tears that blinded me. “I don’t know, I can’t tell.”

  “That’s okay. Put your hand on his chest, can you feel it moving?” My hand quickly found my dad’s large sturdy chest. I sat quiet and still praying for movement.

  With an unrestrained wail, I almost dropped the phone. "I can't feel anything," I began to panic again.

  "Alright, Ella. Was you dad eating anything when he collapsed?" I looked around the room for the answers. Was he? He had been fixing lunch, but I didn't think he'd started eating without me.

  “I don’t think so,” I murmured as I thought back to the moment he simply collapsed in a sickening heap to the floor.

  "Okay sweetheart, I want you to lay your head on your dad's chest and see if you can hear his heartbeat." My dad's usual warmth seemed to be seeping away from his body, replaced with a frigid, cold that didn't belong on my warm, caring father. My head rested against his cold chest, and I tried hard not to cry otherwise I might miss the magical sound of his beating heart.

  "Can you hear anything Ella?" The calm, resolute voice asked. I listened for a moment more. There…perhaps something. I wasn't sure, but there seemed to be noises, whether they were coming from dad's heart or not I had no idea.

  “I don’t know,” I sobbed. Though what I did hear now was a balm to my frantic soul…a siren!

  “I think I can hear the ambulance,” I exclaimed, renewed hope surging through my veins.

  “They’re less than a minute away Ella. Is the door unlocked?” I knew it wouldn’t be; dad was paranoid about security. I jumped up and ran to the front door. The sirens were close, their wail a beacon of hope. I flicked the latch on the door and pushed it open. Stepping onto the porch I watched the ambulance swing around the corner and into my street. I waved my hands frantically fearful they might miss my house. The lights on top of the ambulance flashed a furious vision of warning, the siren screamed with terrifying urgency.

  “There here,” I wept with relief as help pulled into my drive.

  “Good girl, you did so well
Ella. You can hang up the phone now the paramedics will take care of your dad.”

  "Okay," I said with tears still falling down my pale cheeks as a man and woman in uniform raced up the porch steps. I pressed the little button that disconnected me from that calm, steady voice, watching the solemn looking paramedics as they slammed through the front door with such force that the Christmas wreath we had hung only this morning fell to the floor. I stood quietly in the kitchen watching like a useless bystander as the paramedics pumped on my dad's chest. The crack I heard every now and again was sickening to my stomach; my hand covered my mouth tightly trying to muffle the unrestrained moans. Somehow my tears stopped which shouldn't have surprised me. I had cried a river; surely my body was now bone dry. The panic that had consumed me fell away replaced with mindless disbelief as I watched my lifeless dad. Looking about the room I took in the Christmas decorations I had been so eager to set up this morning. I had woken daddy soon after the sun had risen on what was an unusually warm Thanksgiving. While other thirteen-year-olds were grizzling about how lame it was to have to spend the holidays with their families, I silently looked forward to it. Even though it was usually just dad and me, I loved it. He worked hard all year to make sure the holidays were ours, to do as we wished. Movies, picnics, hiking, skating, drawing, or just simply hanging out at home, we were always laughing and having fun.

  The paramedics moved my dad to a gurney as I continued to watch on numb, my arms wrapped around my stomach. He was gone. Somehow my heart already felt the weight of his loss. Without warning the most important thing in my world had been taken from me and I felt horribly alone.

  Chapter 1

  Ella

  ‘Hate’ – (to feel intense dislike, or extreme aversion or hostility). Such a powerful word, such a strong emotion. To live without hate must be bliss. I had lived with hate for four years now, four long years of intense dislike and extreme aversion. So much hate filled my life, it felt like nothing else existed, my heart and soul was filled with it. For the most part, I was dead inside and could barely remember the time when I was alive, when I had dreams, hopes…a future. By the time I was thirteen, I had it all planned. Get good grades, study hard and get a scholarship to study art. Eventually perhaps meet a handsome man who would whisk me away to the most exotic places this world had to offer and I would sketch. One day I would own a small gallery, and all my pictures would hang on those walls. I was going to be an artist, and nothing was going to stand in the way of my dreams. That was until hate came along in the form of Marcus Fairmont. Rich, powerful and my mother's new husband, I hated him and God he hated me. His fists certainly echoed that hate when they connected with my body and his eyes confirmed the sentiment. I was fascinated with eyes and had an innate ability to read the truth in them, lust, love, happiness, sadness, hate. I saw it all in the eyes. Where daddy's eyes had been gentle, full of love and fun, Marcus' eyes were full of ruthless hate and indifference. For a time, I was defiant, fighting every step of the way, refusing to bow to his reign. I went out of my way to find trouble, bad grades, bad boys, shoplifting, drugs, anything that would embarrass Marcus, anything to escape Marcus. I did things I am not proud of. Losing my virginity in a drunken stupor in the back seat of Henry Spanner's Chevy was not an impressive moment. Snorting lines of coke in the girl's toilets at school was equally unimpressive, cutting myself repeatedly because I had grown to hate myself almost as much as Marcus, dumbest moment ever.

  My mother was blinded by her love for Marcus, or more appropriately her love for Marcus' money. Marcus kept her well dressed in Prada and Gucci, sent her on exotic vacations with her friends, paid for her new boobs, full lips, and Brazilian wax. Mother barely noticed my desperate acts of self-harm and self-loathing. If she noticed Marcus' violence towards me, she either didn't care or was too afraid to say anything. Her eyes were indifferent and unconcerned, blinded, and Marcus was a damn good sweet talker. My life had become a sick, twisted game and the winner would be the best player. Marcus playing the part of an anxiously concerned parent and I playing the part of an indifferent and sullen teenager. He and I were the only players in this game and for a while he had defeated me. I was ready to give up, and he would have won. That was a moment of true clarity for me. If my life were to be a game, then I'd be damned if I would let Marcus Fairmont win! He played my mother like a finely tuned instrument in the hands of a musical genius. His brow would furrow with appropriate worry when my name was brought up. He threw thousands of dollars at Dr. Fuckwad Theo, who was supposed to ‘fix' me. Dr. Fuckwad was exactly as his name suggested and knew Marcus had no intention of seeing me overcome my so called ‘problems', he knew Marcus would continue to try and break me, and he didn't care. He was handsomely paid to play a small part in this game. God how I wished I could hate my mother for bringing this into our lives. God knows I tried too, but hate was perhaps too strong a word for my mother. 'Disappointment' was something that came to mind.

  After I turned sixteen, I decided to run. This was the only time I fought for my freedom and tried to escape the abuse my body had become far too accustomed to. In the middle of the night, I packed a bag and left, sneaking out like a thief in the night. Henry, my drug dealer, slash boyfriend, slash only friend, gave me a ride and helped me put five-hundred and twenty-six miles of beautiful bitumen between my step-father and I. Henry knew what went down behind the closed doors of my room, he knew the bruises went further than skin deep and in his own sick twisted way he did what he could to spare me that pain. He gave me the blissful escape of drugs, alcohol, and sex…he helped me escape. Three days after my escape, fucking Tom Brennan, Marcus's right-hand man and coincidentally local law enforcement found us at a motel. Henry just stood there and watched him drag me away. Henry wasn't prepared to go to jail for me and though I understood why, it pissed me off. Tom delivered me back to Marcus, hand delivered right to his door like a fucking gift-wrapped present. Instead of beating me Marcus' cruelty found a new low. Marcus offered me a glass of scotch and yeah, I found that strange, but being completely naive I drank it. To this day, I don't know what he put in the liquor but it rendered my body completely useless. Through a hazy memory, I can still recall what happened and how I felt, my limbs non-responsive as he knelt by my side, his eyes filled with vulgar, unspeakable hate. He whispered in my ear, his breath hot and laced with alcohol.

  "I could fuck you right now so easily Ella. That's what you want isn't it? To be fucked by a man rather than a boy? That's why you're whoring your way through this town isn't it? I'm not going to give you what you want Ella. You're too fucking ugly, too thin and bony, too shallow and empty. A real man doesn't want this; a real man would never want a whore like you, but I am going to show you just how in control of this body I truly am." Then I noticed the knife. Surprisingly it wasn't very big, but fuck was it sharp. "You like to cut yourself, mark your skin? I'm going to leave my mark on you Ella and every time you look at it, you will think of me and how I own you. I control you, Ella."

  One deep slice across each wrist that hurt like a bitch at first but quickly became a numb throbbing sensation as my blood pumped from my body. I thought I was going to die, and I clearly remember smiling. I was going to see daddy again; then the darkness pulled me under. I woke in a room where bright unmerciful lights glared down on me from the ceiling while doctors and nurses hovered over my bed. The looks on their faces as my bleary eyes took them in was heart-wrenching pity. Everyone looked at me with pity now. Poor little Ella whose daddy died and now she's all rich and has everything yet throws it away like a spoiled little brat throwing a tantrum. Poor little whoring, drug addicted Ella tried to kill herself. Teachers, friends, parents, doctors, they all looked at me the same. I felt like screaming, like bellowing till my throat was raw and stripped of the inequity of being accused of such a thing. Whore, yes. Drug addict? Perhaps. Self-harmer? Uh-huh. But killing myself? Slitting my wrists and letting my life simply drain from my body? Fuck no.

  Marcus' clear psychosis
meant it was time for a new tactic, and I obediently heeled. It felt like giving in, and that pissed me off, but I wasn't giving in. I was surviving. I did what I had to do to stay safe. Bide my time until I reached that golden mark, eighteen. Then I was free to leave, they couldn't force me to stay, they couldn't pay me enough to stay. Lately, though, I found myself wondering if I would reach that milestone only a short week away. Even though Marcus' violence had lately lost its sting, the way he looked at me now filled me with a new fear. I had finally begun to develop a woman's body. Over the last year, my small, spindly form had developed the curves I once yearned for. Now Marcus's eyes watched me with sickening lust, and I thought just maybe I had finally reached breaking point.

  My hand instinctively danced across the blank page before me, leaving elegant charcoal lines in its wake. Sketching came naturally. It was a talent my daddy had discovered I had when I was nine, and he found me sketching a portrait of our dog Twisty with Crayola crayons. Apparently it was amazing, and I truly loved doing it. Art was where my mind was free to escape; it felt as though I was no longer in my body, I could be somewhere else, anywhere else. Free. Within a few long lines and some simple shading, a face took shape. Beautiful and graceful, the picture of Mrs. Flannery was for my art teacher Mr. Flannery. He had given me the photo last week, asking me if I would mind sketching a charcoal of his wife, a gift for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. He was going to pay me for it, my first commission. A light tap on my door broke my concentration. I knew it was my mother, Marcus never knocked.

  "Yes," I said in a low irritated voice, my thoughts wishing her away. Our relationship was splintered and delicate, in fact, it was probably more appropriate to say we didn't have a relationship, more an acquaintance. The door pushed open, and my mother entered. She was elegantly dressed in a tight fitting dress, heels that were much too high, her hair styled into an artful twist at the back of her head. She was pretty my mom, high cheek bones, sharp green eyes and blonde hair that she paid a fortune for. That was the problem though; my mom was an expensively manufactured lie, attractive on the outside but bland and ugly on the inside.