Jenny Plague-Bringer: (Jenny Pox #4)

  Jenny Plague-Bringer

  (The Paranormals, Book 4)

  by J.L. Bryan

  Copyright 2012 Jeffrey L. Bryan. All rights reserved.

  The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

  www.jlbryanbooks.com

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  The Paranormals series by J.L. Bryan:

  On Nook:

  Jenny Pox

  Tommy Nightmare

  Alexander Death

  Jenny Plague-Bringer

  See more J.L. Bryan books on Nook

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In July 2009, when I first began to write a story about an unfortunate, lonely girl with a deadly touch, I certainly never imagined that this book would connect so strongly with so many readers, or that it would lead to a full-time career as an independent author. Jenny’s story has grown and deepened over the years, and I think this book takes that to another level. I’m already starting to miss Jenny, Seth, and all the others as I wrap up this book in September 2012.

  The Jenny Pox books have freed me from the need to work a day job so that I can stay home with my son Johnny, who is now almost sixteen months old. This time in my life has been more precious than I can say, and so I want to start by thanking every single reader who has bought my books and made this possible. Double thanks to those of you who’ve taken the time to recommend my books to other people, to post a positive review on major retailers, or otherwise helped to get the word out. As an indie author, I depend almost entirely on word of mouth from readers. Thank you so much for all you’ve done! I’m amazed every time I hear from a new fan.

  Next, I want to thank my lovely wife Christina, who has helped out in every way, from believing in me more than I did, to giving honest feedback on drafts of my books, to spending plenty of time with the baby so that I can write each day. You are a true companion and best friend! (Also, thanks to Johnny for being a happy, good-natured sort of baby!)

  I have to thank those who helped me create this book. Vicki Keire did the editing, full of her usual love of and insight into Jenny’s world, while Claudia from Phatpuppy Art again provided the beautiful cover art. My beta readers, including the fabulous authors Rhiannon Frater, Samantha Young, Courtney Cole, and Heather Hildenbrand, helped get the story into shape. Also, Amy Leigh Strickland, who I forgot to ask to look over it.

  I also want to thank the people who helped the Jenny Pox books reach their audience. First is Amanda Hocking, who first put Jenny Pox in front of huge numbers of people when she offered to excerpt it in her bestselling book Ascend, the third book of the Trylle series, which has since been reissued by St. Martin’s Press. Without Amanda, Jenny might have had a much shorter life.

  Many people in the indie author community have been supportive fans of my books. I want to thank some of my indie friends like Stacey Wallace Benefiel and LK Rigel, people with whom I can talk about anything. There are people like epic fantasy author David Dalglish, who will probably never read books as girly as these, but his constant support, advice, and help to fellow authors is amazing. Hanging out with writers like Daniel Arenson, Michael Crane, and Daniel Pyle helps keep life entertaining.

  Lots of thanks to Rosie Jane Shepherd, who made the Jenny Pox book trailer as a project for film school, so it has actual actors and amazing special effects. You can view it at my website: http://jlbryanbooks.com/books/jennypox.html.

  Then, the book bloggers! I know I won’t be able to come up with all the book bloggers who’ve supported, promoted, and reviewed the Jenny Pox books, but I will try to name all those who’ve been particularly supportive, in more or less chronological order!

  So, here’s a HUGE thanks to: Heather, Heather and Danny from Bewitched Bookworms, Jenny from Supernatural Snark, Kim the Caffeinated Diva, Karen from the Slowest Bookworm, Tori at Smexy Books, Emma at Belle Books, Kelly at Reading the Paranormal, Ashley from Bookish Brunette and Loretta from Between the Pages (both of whom repeatedly harassed me to write a fourth Jenny Pox book, so you can thank them...), Giselle from Xpresso Reads, Shawna LeAnn from Dreaming in the Pages, Sabrina from About Happy Books, Ash from Smash Attack Reads!, Jennifer from Tale of Many Reviews, Jordan from Ink Puddle, Heather from Buried in Books, Isalys at Book Soulmates, Jennie from My Cute Bookshelf, Kristen from Wholly Books, MoonStar from MoonStar’s Fantasy World, Jessi from Reading in the Corner, the mystery girl who runs Unabridged Bookshelf, Shirley from Creative Deeds, Aimee from Coffee Table Reviews, Savannah from Books with Bite, Jennifer from Feminist Fairy Tale Reviews, Kristina from Ladybug Storytime, Kristin from Blood, Sweat & Books, Misty at Kindle Obsessed, Kat from the Aussie Zombie, AimeeKay from Reviews from My First Reads Shelf (who also reviews at Books and Things), Brie from Confessions of the Reading Housewife, Elizabeth from Fishmuffins of Doom, Angie at Books 4 Tomorrow, Diayll at Mother/Gamer/Writer, Tara from Basically Books, Katie and Krisha at Inkk Reviews, Laura at Roses and Vellum, Shelleyrae at Book’d Out, Liliana at Lili Lost in a Book, Mary Grace from The Solitary Bookworm, Jennifer from Book Den, Lauren from Lose Time Reading, Kelsey from Kelsey’s Cluttered Bookshelf, Kristilyn from Reading in Winter, and Heidi from Rainy Day Ramblings, and to all the other book bloggers who took time to read and let people know about these books!

  For Christina

  Prologue

  Ward Kilpatrick and his friends stalked the prissy glam boy as he left the broken sidewalk to squeeze through a ruptured chain-link fence into the abandoned railyard. The boy’s name was Joey Barrons, but Ward and his friends called him “JoJo” because he looked so girly. It bothered Ward just how girly JoJo sometimes looked. It made him want to grab the kid and just pound him. They’d been messing with him since sixth grade, and nothing had changed now that they’d started high school.

  Ward watched through the rupture in the fence as JoJo cut across the abandoned rail yard, stepping around and through rusty old boxcars parked on the ruins of old tracks. It was a shortcut for JoJo to get home fast from the high school and off the garbage-filled streets of East St. Louis...but it wasn’t the safest path, as the glittery little hairsprayed freak was about to learn.

  Ward nodded at his friend Lars, who was fifteen, Ward’s own age. Lars scurried to peel up the broken chain-link as if he were Ward’s personal butler. Ward walked under, followed by his other friend, Carl. Carl was a second-year freshman, sixteen years old.

  JoJo was fourteen but looked twelve, what Ward’s father would have called a “faggy little pinko.” A huge fan of the newly elected President Reagan, Ward’s father, who had repeatedly referred to the recently ousted Jimmy Carter as a “lily-wristed pinko Commie.”

  Ward and his friends were not faggy or pink. When the kids at school were listening to Roxy Music and David Bowie, Ward and pals slammed to hardcore bands that played parties in the city’s countless empty factories and warehouses. You didn’t need an ID to get in, because the shows weren’t legal in the first place. If there wasn’t a party, they usually played bootleg Black Flag cassettes on Carl’s ghetto blaster

  The glam boy looked back over his shoulder, and his mouth popped open in an “O” shape that was almost cartoony. He wore glitter on his face—glitter, for God’s sake—trying to look like one of those weird English rock stars.

  JoJo turned to run, but he had to cross a lot of gravel slag and two more dead rail lines littered with boxcar corpses before he could reach the fence on the far side of the yard.

  “Don’t run!” Ward shouted, as he and his friends took off after JoJo. “Don’t run, little JoJo! You run like a girl!”

  JoJo picked up speed, but his dark purple pl
atform boots failed him. He staggered and fell, his wavy blond hair flaring out into a fluffy mane as his face hit the gravel. Ward and his two friends burst into laughter as they caught up with him.

  “What do you want?” JoJo looked up at Ward. His lower lip was split open and bleeding, and it trembled. He was almost pouting like a baby.

  “Why are you crying already?” Ward asked, folding his arms. “You don’t cry until I tell you to.”

  “Yeah, nobody told you to cry yet,” Lars quickly agreed.

  JoJo looked too scared to even try standing up. Ward’s heart pulsed a little faster. He was eager to get working on the kid.

  JoJo was in their class at school. They were all freshmen, though Ward’s friend JoJo was.

  Ward and his friends had a certain look, keeping their hair shaved close, with black denim jackets adorned with patches—skulls, flags, guns. Nobody fucked with his crew, not for long.

  “Okay, cough it up.” Ward kicked JoJo in the ribs. “Cash.”

  “I don’t have any,” JoJo said. It was believable enough, considering the shitty half-boarded-up house where JoJo lived with his grandmother. It was just beyond the fence, in a neighborhood where half the houses were empty and collapsing, like all the neighborhoods in this part of East St. Louis.

  “No money?” Ward smiled and dropped to a knee beside JoJo. “Then what are you going to give us, JoJo?”

  “What do you want?” JoJo asked in a low whisper.

  “I don’t know. You could suck Lars’ cock, couldn’t you? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ward asked him, trying to sound cold and tough.

  “What?” JoJo gasped.

  “Lars, get over here and let him suck your cock,” Ward commanded. Lars stepped forward, grinning, pretending to unzip his fly. He stood there for a minute, smirking down at JoJo, and finally gave Ward an uncertain look, not sure how far he was supposed to carry the gag. Ward was amused watching both of them squirm, waiting for Ward’s next words.

  “Well?” Ward said to JoJo. “Are you going to pay us in cash or suckage?”

  “Do I have to?” JoJo squeaked, looking up at Lars’ husky, shaven-head form leering down at him.

  “Do I have to?” Carl imitated, and Ward and Lars laughed. JoJo tried, pathetically, to laugh along as if he were in on the joke.

  Ward seized JoJo’s face in both hands and glared into JoJo’s frightened, wet blue eyes (which were trimmed in eyeliner, for God’s sake!) Ward gave him a sly smile, and then he reached into JoJo’s brain.

  He dug through a bunch of crap—shopping for records, helping his stupid female friends pick out make-up and hair products. Then he found useful tidbits—JoJo socking away spare coins, scrounged from lunches he’d chosen not to eat and the occasional gift of a dollar from his grandmother. He kept it all hidden in the box of an old watercolor set from childhood, which he stashed under his bed.

  “Eighteen dollars and seventy-three cents,” Ward said. “You’ve got it hidden under your bed. You want to buy a ticket for Iggy Pop.” This set Ward’s two friends laughing.

  “How did you know?” JoJo asked. Ward’s knowledge of his secrets seemed to scare him even more than the threat of getting his face bloodied, or sucking off Lars. “How can you know that?”

  “Go fetch it for us, you little mutt,” Ward said. “All of it.”

  “No!” JoJo’s face broke down, and he really did start to cry. “I’ve been saving it forever.”

  “What did you say?” Ward grabbed JoJo’s blousy shirt and lifted him to his feet, and JoJo goggled up at him, shocked. “Did you say no?”

  “That’s what he said!” Lars told him.

  “I can’t, I need it,” JoJo whined.

  “I can’t, I need it,” Carl imitated, which made Lars laugh.

  Ward didn’t laugh, but instead drew back his fist and popped the little silky runt in the face. JoJo cried out as blood flung from his nose and splattered across a graffiti-covered train car. Ward let him stagger away a few steps, and then he pounced.

  He punched JoJo in the stomach, doubling him over, then shoved him down to the gravel again. He kicked at JoJo’s ribs while the kid squirmed on the rocks. Lars and Carl joined in, slamming their heavy black boots into JoJo’s face and arms.

  Ward dropped to his knees, straddling the bleeding, mewling little glam brat. He turned JoJo onto his stomach and laid his face across the nearest rotten chunk of old railroad track. JoJo struggled and squirmed, but Ward held him in place.

  “I could have Carl bring his boot down, smash out all your teeth,” Ward whispered into JoJo’s ear, where a shiny blob of gold dangled from his pierced lobe. “Ever seen that happen before? They spray out like popcorn, pieces of tongue, blood all over. Is that what you want, kid?”

  JoJo whimpered a “no.”

  “So, tomorrow, you bring the cash to school. Eighteen dollars, seventy-three cents.” He petted JoJo’s pretty blond head. “And if you whine about it, we’ll break your fingers, one by one.” Ward had heard these threats in cheap gangster movies. “Do you understand me, JoJo?”

  JoJo nodded, his eyes regarding Ward with naked fear. Ward winked at him and stood up. Carl and Lars both had fear in their eyes, too, after his calm, matter-of-fact threats to JoJo. Good. Let everyone fear him. Fear meant respect.

  Ward turned and walked away without another word.

  “See ya, glitter girl!” Lars shouted. He gave JoJo an extra kick in the stomach before following Ward and Carl out of the train yard.

  Ward smiled to himself. Tomorrow, he and his buddies would each be six dollars richer. Ward believed in dividing the spoils evenly, because he wasn’t interested in spoils. He was interested in respect, loyalty, and fear. Even in this dirt-poor, rat-infested hell of a city, money was nothing compared to such things.

  Chapter One

  Esmeralda Medina Rios rode the bus home to their studio apartment on South Boyle Avenue, where they could hear traffic from Interstate 5 all night long. Their building was old, with some exposed wiring and gaping holes in the plaster walls. Esmeralda stepped over an unconscious, tequila-drenched heap of an old man on the stairs and continued up to their second floor apartment.

  She was exhausted. Ashleigh’s spirit had possessed her only for a matter of weeks, but in that time, Ashleigh had managed to wreck Esmeralda's life.

  First, her mother had kicked her out, or rather not allowed her to move back in, when Esmeralda had returned home to Los Angeles on the back of Tommy’s bike. Ashleigh had been a terror who never showed Esmeralda's mother the least amount of respect, and of course Esmeralda's mother had always hated Tommy, the dirty blond gringo she’d brought home. Her mother had much preferred her previous boyfriend, Pedro, who worked construction while studying law at night. Esmeralda hadn’t spoken to Pedro in over a year.

  Esmeralda had also lost her mortuary cosmetics job at Garcia y Garcia Funeral Home. The only job she could find was part-time at the much larger and cheaper Hernandez place, where the pay was poor and the jobs were all rushed. She’d been spoiled by the quiet, leisurely speed of work at Garcia y Garcia. Hernandez was more like a factory, a fast-paced corpse processing plant.

  She had finally saved up enough for tuition, though, and she was about to start her final classes toward her Associate of Applied Science in Funeral Service degree. Then she would find better work while continuing her education, and in time, all would be well.

  That was what she told herself as she walked down the crumbling second-floor hallway, sore and miserable, worrying about which utility she would have to pay next, and whether it would be easier to live without water or power.

  She slid the key into the rusty lock and opened the door.

  Tommy sat on the bed, smoking a Basic cigarette and watching their small TV set. The ashtray on the windowsill was overflowing with cigarette butts, and the entire place reeked of cheap tobacco. The only light came from the open window behind him, sunlight that turned fuzzy and nicotine-yellow inside the cramped one-r
oom apartment.

  “I told you to stop smoking in here,” Esmeralda said. She closed the door behind her and hung her purse on a nail in the wall. “It’s so bad for our health.”

  “Well, hey, nice to see you, too,” Tommy replied.

  “I mean it.” Esmeralda sank to the bed next to him. Tommy was watching a rerun of an old Christopher Reeve Superman movie. He smelled like cheap whiskey, probably Ten High. “Are you working tonight?”

  “It’s Thursday, right?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Then I’m working.” He glanced at the rumpled blanket heaped beside him, then gave a little shrug, reached under it, and slid out a bottle of Ten High. He gave her a little defiant look as he lifted it to his lips. It was a fight waiting to happen, and he knew it.

  Tommy had trouble getting good work because he couldn’t even use his real name or identification. Esmeralda had a cousin who was good at finding jobs for illegals, so he’d set Tommy up on a job unloading produce trucks. He’d gotten fired for being late and missing work, so her cousin then found him a job washing dishes in a Taiwanese restaurant in Monterey Park. He’d gotten fired for the same reasons.

  Now, he worked a few nights a week as a bouncer at a seedy North Hollywood bar. Tommy wasn’t an especially big and muscular guy, but his touch spread fear into anyone. He could seize a troublemaker, fill him with his own worse nightmares, and then shove him out the door as easily as a crying child.

  “I still don’t like you at this job,” Esmeralda said. “Using the fear. It troubles you so much.”

  “It doesn’t trouble me.” Tommy snorted at her and swigged his whiskey.

  “The more you use it, the worst your own nightmares become. You’re screaming and crying in your sleep.”

  “Who wouldn’t, living in a shithole like this?” Tommy waved his bottle at the small, rank room around them.