Asylum (Touched by the Fae Book 1) Read online

  Asylum

  Jessica Lynch

  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Lynch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by Jessica Lynch

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Author’s Note

  Shadow

  Pre-Order Now

  Stay in Touch

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Lynch

  Foreword

  Asylum is the first of three books that will tell the story of a young woman named Riley Thorne. While it is a supernatural series, full of magic, mayhem, adventure, prophecies, and romance, it also features some real world issues, too.

  Because of the way the Black Pine facility is designed—it’s a home for “wayward juveniles”—nearly every in-patient grapples with their own issues. So, please, consider this a content warning for mental health, doctors, eating disorders, and more. Riley’s official diagnosis is schizotypal personality disorder because of her insistence that fae are real—and they’re after her. That colors this whole first book.

  Of course, as you read the series, you learn that that is true. The fae are after her, but that doesn’t diminish her last six years of recovery inside of the asylum. Or the phobias she developed along the way.

  I wanted to give readers the opportunity to make an informed decision about whether or not this is the type of book for them. If you choose to continue, I hope you enjoy the first part of Riley’s journey!

  And, as a reminder, the prequel to Asylum, Favor, is currently out now if you would like to read about just why the fae are after Riley in the first place.

  xoxo,

  Jessica

  Prologue

  It always seems to be raining whenever I visit the cemetery.

  Just my luck. Within minutes, I’m already soaked. I wish my shirt had a hood, something, anything to cover my head. No dice. Despite the year-round air conditioning in my room, I always sleep in a basic tee; it’s the only time I can let the bare skin of my arms go uncovered. My favorite hoodie is probably right where I left it: tossed on top of my dresser. If it wasn’t for the chilly rain, I wouldn’t need it.

  I know every inch of this place. I mean, I’ve spent more than enough time here. I head toward the closest mausoleum. The name on the outside says Richardson, and it’s got the widest overhang on this side of the cemetery. I duck beneath it, shrinking against the marble in a fruitless attempt to avoid the raindrops. They’re falling hard and fast, plopping against the flattened grass, spraying dots of mud against the hem of my pajama pants.

  A light bobs in the distance. Up. Down. Up. Down. I follow the white splotch as it moves further out. It’s the caretaker, making his last rounds of the night. The glowing blob of light? His lantern going on the journey with him.

  I know the old guy’s routine almost as well as he does. First, he’ll check to make sure no one is stupid enough to be caught on the grounds this late at night—especially during another summer storm—then he’ll head back inside, lock up his office, close the gates, and go home.

  My eyes trained on the moving light, I keep to the shadows where I know he won’t find me. The shadows have always protected me. I’m safe here.

  Not that I can explain how I got here. Hell, I don’t even know how I’m going to make my way back. Acorn Falls is about a half an hour away from Black Pine by car—and I never learned to drive. On foot? Hours, easy.

  That’s okay. The cemetery tonight? This is where I’m supposed to be. It’s where I belong.

  Closing my eyes, I listen to the pitter-patter of the raindrops hitting the graves around me. The wind screams and howls and I stay tensed, waiting for the clap of thunder or the crash of lightning. A storm’s brewing all right. When I open my eyes again, there’s hardly any difference. It’s too dark to make out anything now that the lantern is so far away.

  It’s only growing colder out, too. I hug myself, pulling my thin t-shirt close, shivering when the clammy tips of my leather gloves cut right through the soaked material. The rain has washed the rest of the day’s warmth right away. A few strokes shy of midnight, I’m almost freezing. It doesn’t help that the marble of the mausoleum leeches any body heat I’ve got left.

  Still, I refuse to leave.

  Not yet.

  The storm is my friend. Eager to get out of the rain, the cemetery caretaker half-asses his job. His luck is a tiny bit better than mine and he manages to shine his light back in my direction without even meaning to before glancing away. Like every other time I’ve inexplicably found myself at this cemetery, he doesn’t know I’m here.

  Phew. I’m just glad that the mausoleum shields me while the shadows hide me. It was a close call. When he shifts again, I let out a sigh of relief between chattering teeth.

  His lantern is nothing but a pinprick in the distance as he moves further and further away. Suddenly, the light is gone.

  I wait a few minutes more. My teeth won’t stop chattering and I’m damn lucky that I don’t slice off a piece of my tongue when it slips between my molars. Inside my gloves, I can feel my fingers becoming prunes; the water always finds a way to seep in. I find myself wishing I had a napkin or a towel. For too long I had to be careful to keep my brand new hands dry. All these years later, it’s a reflex. I guess it’s just too hard of a habit to break.

  When I hear the roar, I think the thunder has arrived. That’s before twin lights turn on and break up the gloom. Headlights. The caretaker has started his beater of a truck. I duck down, making myself even smaller as I press my back up against the mausoleum. My skin is white, my pale blonde hair a few shades lighter. Even though my t-shirt is black—my gloves, too—if he peeks this way again and I’m not hiding, no way he’ll miss me.

  The marble is so cold that it feels like I’ve been stabbed. I hiss through my teeth, but I don’t move away from the wall until I see the truck lurch toward the front gate. Mud sucks at the tires. The car whines as he surges forward, stopping when he reaches the opposite side of the entrance.

  The caretaker keeps his truck running while he jumps out and yanks the gate closed. He locks it, trapping me in the cemetery with my demons and my ghosts.

  I let out another soft sigh of relief. To be honest, I much prefer it that way.

  Madelaine’s grave is located on the west end of the cemetery, not too far from the Richardsons’ mausoleum. Balling my hands into fists inside the squishy gloves, I push off of the mausoleum’s outer wall and step lightly onto the flooded grass. It’s slick and slippery. I come close to falling a couple of times. Once, I nearly lose my slipper in a deceiving puddle. I grit my teeth and keep on going. I don’t know how I got here, but I know why I’ve come.

  It’s little more than a drizzle when I find the right resting place.

  The Everetts marked her grave with a giant stone angel. It’s hard to miss, but I run my gloved fingers along each wing, recognizing the carved lines and the chip on the right side. Almost six years later, through the rain and sleet and the snow, and that chip is still the same size.

  I hardly pay any attention to the rain, the damp ground, even the chill as I kneel in front of her grave. Moving my hand lower, I trace each letter in her name until I’m satisfied that I’m with my sister again. I turn so that I’m sitting on the marble base, resting my back against her headstone.

  There are no words. I sit in silence, my head bowed into my chest.

  It’s only when the rain quits at last and the sky starts to lighten that I wonder if anyone from the asylum has noticed that I’m gone.

  1

  The first thing I see when I open my eyes again is my window. Six bars stretch vertically across the lengths of the glass plane. And it hits me.

  I’m not at the cemetery. I’m back at Black Pine again.

  The asylum.

  Breathing in deep, I can’t get the smell of wet graveyard soil out of my nose. My bangs are plastered down to my forehead, but it has to be sweat. I mean, there’s no way that I actually could have left my room.

  I haven’t been on the outside in close to six years.

  I shove my bangs back. They squelch against my leather gloves. I can’t stop my shudder. Getting my gloves wet is even worse than when I’m forced to bare my hands in front of an audience. My stomach was already queasy from a poor night’s sleep full of vivid dreams and bad memories. The damp leather gloves make it so much worse.

  Might as well get up. There’s no chance in hell I can even think about going back to sleep now.

  That’s nothing new. Not for me. I always wake up before seven. I can’t remember the last time I was jerked from my sleep by the facility’s wake-up calls. Not since I stopped taking my sleeping medication regularly, I bet. More often than not, I’m up and dressed before the morning tech knocks on my door an
d tells me it’s time to get going. Most days I even have my bed made.

  After all this time, I know the routine.

  Amy is peppy, a real morning person. Today she chatters about her most recent attempt at potty-training her son while she checks my vitals. Blood pressure, pulse, temperature… she seamlessly goes from one test to the next, marking the results down on my chart. Once she pronounces me fit as a fiddle, she sends me off for my morning meds and my shower.

  A blonde technician I don’t recognize is standing in front of the chalkboard at the nursing station. She writes the morning message quickly before hurrying off, wiping the chalk dust from her hands onto her scrubs. A faint white ghost hand leaves a trail down the side of her light blue pants.

  I turn to look at the board. It says the same sort of thing it usually does, for those who can’t remember:

  Today is Sunday. You are at Black Pine Facility for Wayward Juveniles. This is the residential ward for the 19-21 age group. It is raining outside. All windows must remain shut.

  I feel better knowing that it’s raining out. That explains part of my dream, even if I still can’t figure out why my hair was so damp. Leaving it at sweat, I snort at that last line.

  This technician must be new to Black Pine if she thinks we can open any of the windows here. Despite its stupid name, we all know that the asylum—sorry, Facility for Wayward Juveniles—is really more of an old-fashioned, obsolete psych hospital. Come on. We’re on the fifth floor. They’re not going to risk us jumping. None of these windows open.

  It’s sad, in a way. Last night’s dream makes me remember how much I miss the fresh air. If I breathe in deep, I can still smell the damp earth and the rain on the marble gravestones.

  Shit.

  I’ve got to remember not to tell any of my doctors about that. If they think my hallucinations are stretching to different senses, who knows what they’ll prescribe for me next. All I do know is that I’m pretty sure I can’t stomach any more medication.

  Speaking of medication—

  Three other patients are already lined up at the nursing station, waiting for their morning meds. Since Amy started at our end of the floor, it’s all girls. Our crew will be the first in the showers, too. Sometimes I suspect that Amy does it on purpose, waking the girls up first so that we get that extra half an hour to use the showers before the boys do, but she’s never said. Then again, I’ve never asked.

  I learned a long time ago not to bother asking any questions. People lie. It’s what they do. And, hell if I know why, but I’ve always been able to tell. It gets depressing after a while. I’ve gotten used to tuning it out, even if I can’t turn it off entirely.

  Carolina brings up the rear, her long dark hair a curtain as she nibbles on her thumbnail. I get in line right behind her, trying not to notice just how loosely her Black Pine tee hangs off her bony frame. She’s the most recent chick to join our floor. New meat, too, not one of the kids on the fourth floor who aged out to ours. She’s quiet, seems sweet, and even if she didn’t open up during group therapy, I’d still have a pretty good idea why her parents tossed her inside with the rest of us.

  When she senses me lingering a couple of steps behind her, she shoves her sheet of hair over her shoulder, her eyes friendly as she grins over at me. Nope. I immediately drop my gaze to the tiles. They’re a pristine white speckled with grey, and though I’ve seen them every day for the last two years, they’re suddenly the most fascinating tiles in the world.

  I mean, look at that speckle over there. With the shadow and the shape, it reminds me of a dolphin. And that one—

  Carolina lets out a soft sigh, then shuffles so that she’s facing the front of the nurse’s station again.

  I want to tell her that I can’t help it. That it’s not just her, either.

  I don’t.

  I can’t.

  Besides, if she’s locked up in here with me long enough, she’ll learn. Unable to form personal relationships, abandonment issues, a deep-seated fear that everyone I’ve ever known or loved will eventually leave me… that’s why I’m at Black Pine.

  Well, those are some of the reasons why I’m committed here.

  The line moves quickly. Our morning nurses are quick and efficient. It’s their job, them and the techs, to make sure that us juveniles have a strict routine and that we stick to it.

  Before we’re even up, the medicines have already been doled out into individual dixie cups with our names scribbled on the side in black marker. When it’s my turn, I step up to the nursing station. Already looking past me to the next in line, the nurse hands me the cup that says R. Thorne.

  I peek inside, giving the cup a shake. Four pills roll around the bottom, just like every morning. Since there’s no point arguing with the nurse, I toss them back before moving aside and making room for Meg. I chase my meds with one of the apple juice cups left out on a tray. The bitter taste still lingers on my tongue. Ugh. No matter how long I’ve been doing this, I’ve always hated this part.

  Too bad there’s nothing I can do about it.

  In other facilities, patients are allowed to refuse their meds. Not me, and not most of us at Black Pine. It’s one thing if you voluntarily stick yourself inside, but nearly everyone I’ve met in my six years here has been tossed in by someone else. A mother. A grandfather. Maybe an aunt, uncle, or a second cousin twice removed, I don’t know. Because we come here when we’re minors, it’s usually the adults that make the call.

  In my case, the state has control of me. It was either here or prison, and even if I don’t think I’m crazy, I would have to be if I picked prison over the asylum. When I turn twenty-one in two weeks, I’m finally free of this place.

  That means I only had to do six years. If I chose prison, the sentence for manslaughter is almost fifteen.

  After I shower and change into fresh clothes, I head off to breakfast.

  There are two tables in the dining area: one for the girls, another for the guys. I must have taken longer to wash up than usual because I’m the last chick to take her assigned seat. The guys start to trickle in about ten minutes later, filling up their table. When it seems like we’re missing someone, I do a quick headcount. Twelve. Someone’s not here.

  It takes me a second before I realize it’s Jason, a tall, light-skinned black boy who always had an optimistic outlook. He’s still not here when the morning techs announce that it’s time to eat. I vaguely wonder what happened to him. I’m the oldest in our ward, so close to twenty-one that I can almost taste it, so he hasn’t moved on before me.

  Maybe he’s been released. Maybe he’s in trouble and they’re keeping him confined to his room. I give it another few seconds of thought, then let it slip away.

  In-patients change. Techs change. Doctors change. All that matters is that I’m still here.

  For two weeks, three days, and a couple of hours longer, I’m stuck inside.

  I can not wait to get out.

  At least it’s Sunday. Sundays are way easier than most other days. Because it’s the weekend, our schedule is a bit more lenient. Yeah, we still have to get up ass early, but we get an hour for breakfast, then another hour to just kind of unwind before sessions start.

  I won’t see any of my doctors today—not until Monday—but there’s Lorraine, my social worker, who I see once a week because the courts say I have to, my mandatory daily check-in, plus group therapy. It’s usually art on Sundays. Actually, it’s art therapy most rainy days. Or whenever the facility staff runs out of ideas for us.

  Whatever.

  On the plus side, Sunday is pancake day. It’s a treat. Something to look forward to.

  Of course, not everyone is happy. In her high-pitched whine, Whitney complains that she’s allergic to chocolate and all of the pancakes are contaminated. She insists that Amy throw the whole tray out, pouting when Amy whips out her clipboard with her notes on it and reminds her that Whitney’s only allergens on file are cat dander and pollen. Because she’s used to Whitney’s complaints—she pulls this same stunt every Sunday—Amy offers Whitney a blueberry pancake instead, but Whitney scowls and jerks her plate closer to her.