THE DEVIL'S FOOTPRINTS by Amanda Stevens thriller paranormal suspense horror

THE FOOTPRINTS WERE ETCHED IN THE SNOW FOR MILES, PASSING THROUGH WALLS AND CROSSING RIVERS...APPEARING ON THE OTHER SIDE AS THOUGH NO BARRIER COULD STOP THEM.

In 1922 a farmer in Adamant, Arkansas, awakes to a noise on his roof and finds his snow-blanketed yard marked with thousands of cloven footprints. The prints vanish with the melting snow...only to reappear seventy years later near the gruesome killing of Rachel DeLaune.

Years after her sister's unsolved murder, New Orleans tattoo artist Sarah DeLaune is haunted by the mysteries of her past. Sarah has always believed that her sister was killed by a man named Ashe Cain. But no one else had ever seen Ashe. He had "appeared" to Sarah when she needed a friend the most, only to vanish on the night of her sister's murder.

The past bleeds into the present when two mutilated bodies are found near Sarah's home, the crime scene desecrated by cloven footprints.

Listen to an excerpt on MUCH ADO ABOUT BOOKS

REVIEWS

"Faced paced and plotted with spectacular precison and guile, this is undiluted suspense at its very finest. Nervous readers should read it in full daylight." —Romantic Times

"The fast-paced storyline hooks readers who ponder whether this is a horror tale, psychological suspense, or some sort of combination as Amanda Stevens keeps the tension stratospherically high throughout. Keep the lights on as this one will reach your gut." —The Mystery Gazette

"A supernatural imagery mixes with psychology to create a terrifying look into a cold case, memory and the legacy of the present day consequences. Indeed, Amanda Stevens' brilliant use of imagery gives an unusual glimpse into the dynamics behind the murders." —Merrimon Book Reviews

"Amanda Stevens writes creepy thrillers with a Southern drawl." —Bestselling author Heather MacAllister

"Stevens is at her best with this one; the sickos are really sick and nothing is what it appears to be." —Bestselling author Kay David

She had no idea he was there.

Seated on the porch steps of the old Duncan farmhouse, the girl remained blissfully unaware of his vigil. If she had turned she would have seen him, but she didn't turn. Instead, she pulled her jacket more tightly around her slight body, as if stricken by a sudden chill.

In the distance, the ancient bells up in the cottonwoods tinkled in the shifting twilight. Ghost music, he thought. A serenade for the dead.

He listened for a moment, eyes closed, anticipation strumming the nerve endings along his spine. Then he crept a few steps closer.

And still she heard nothing.

Not surprising. He'd learned a long time ago the importance of a silent approach. No squeaking shoes. No snapping twigs. Not even an exhaled breath. He moved like a shadow, like a stealthy predator bearing down with eagle-eyed precision on his prey.

Her head suddenly lifted, as if yanked by the invisible bond that connected them, and he froze, heart hammering, until the danger passed.

She settled back to her daydreaming as her dog played nearby in the tall grass. Her back was to him, and he longed to call out her name, make her turn so he could glimpse her face, stare deeply into those dark, dark eyes.

A shiver coursed through him. He wanted that contact more than anything in the world, but it couldn't be today. It would be dark soon, and the longer he stayed out, the harder it became to control his natural urges. The demons driving him sometimes made him careless and greedy and all too willing to risk everything he needed to keep hidden.

But for her, it might be worth it.

Outwardly, she looked like a normal girl. Straight dark hair with a fringe of bangs across her forehead. Pale skin. Deep brown eyes. Nothing at all extraordinary about her appearance.

On the inside, though, where it counted the most, Sarah DeLaune was anything but normal.

She was young, only thirteen, so he had to be very careful with her. He was older, wiser and—in some ways—worldlier, although he could shed his dreary veneer as easily as peeling away the Goth persona he'd adopted. Unlike normal-looking Sarah, he had embraced the trappings of darkness because without the black clothes and heavy makeup, he became someone else.

"Gabriel, you leave that squirrel alone, you hear me?" she scolded her dog. "Don't make me cut a switch!"

He smiled at the idle threat. Sarah would never harm a hair on that mutt's head. Until now, Gabriel had been her only companion. Until now.

The dog trotted over to the steps, and Sarah cupped his homely face in her hands, scratched behind his shapeless ears. Gabriel started to flop worshipfully at her feet, but a change of wind brought a new scent, a new excitement and the dog whirled, his keen eyes searching the deep shadows at the corner of the house.

He started to step back out of sight, but it was too late. He'd gotten careless and now he'd been spotted.

As Gabriel bounded toward him, he reached into his pocket and snagged one of the treats he kept in a plastic bag. He'd learned early on that Sarah's dog had a weakness for bacon.

Skidding to a halt, the ugly mutt sniffed his hand, then greedily gobbled the morsel right from his palm. He dug out another, his gaze never leaving Sarah's.

She'd risen from the steps and stood looking at him as if she didn't quite know what to do. Her instincts told her to run, but her curiosity urged her to stay. For a girl like Sarah, there really was no choice.

Slowly, she walked through the dead weeds toward the corner of the house, peering into the shadows.

He drew several quick breaths as he watched her. He'd been in her house on any number of occasions when the family was out. He'd drifted through the silent rooms, touching her things, absorbing her scent. He knew her so well by now. Her habits, her secrets, her innermost fears. Sometimes it almost seemed as if she were a mirror image of himself. And yet for all that, he'd never before been this close to her.

A quiver of excitement vibrated through him as their eyes met for the first time. In that instant, he could feel her gaze penetrating the darkest recesses of his soul, probing the deepest corners of his mind, the way he'd searched every crevice of her room.

"Hey, you!" she called. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The intensity of her focus disconcerted him and he had to glance away as she approached. "I just wanted to have a look around. I didn't think anyone would be here this time of day."

"Well, you thought wrong." She gave him a scowling appraisal. "Who are you anyway? I've never seen you out here before."

"My name is Ashe Cain," he said, careful to remain in the shadows where she couldn't get a good look at him.

"Never heard of you and I know everyone in town."

"I'm not from Adamant."

That caught her interest. "Where you from then?"

"Does it matter? I'm not trespassing, am I?"

"Yeah, but nobody gives a shit about this place." She cocked her head as she continued to study him, apparently not the least bit afraid. He should have had more faith, he realized.

"Ashe Cain." She repeated his name slowly, as if testing the feel of the syllables against her lips. "Is that your real name or did you just make it up?"

The question startled him. "No, it's my real name. Why?"

"Because all the Goth kids at my school give themselves lame-ass names like Twilight and Shadow." She paused with a mocking smile. "And Ashe."

He scoffed at her suggestion. "Don't lump me in with those poseurs. I'm not like that."

"Why'd you come out here then?" She nodded toward the old farmhouse behind him. "This is their hangout."

"I came to see the footprints."

Something darted through her eyes before she gave a derisive laugh. "That's just a stupid legend. The footprints don't really exist."

"Are you sure?"

She scratched the back of her knee. "I've been out here lots of times and I've never seen them."

"Just because you can't see something doesn't mean it's not real. Besides, I have seen them."

"You've seen the footprints? Where?"

"I can show you if you want."

A gust of wind ruffled her dark hair, the same breeze that stirred the bells in the distance. For the first time, he sensed her hesitancy. Not from fear, exactly, but from an instinctive resistance that would have to be slowly and carefully chipped away.

That same thrill of anticipation soared up his spine and he turned his head so she wouldn't see his smile.

She thrust her hands into her jacket pockets. "Even if I believed you, which I don't, I have to get home. My old man hates it when I'm late for dinner."

"I hope you're not leaving on my account. You don't have to be afraid of me. I would never hurt you."

Her head shot up. "Do I look afraid? Please. Besides, you even think about laying a hand on me, my dog will kick your emo ass."

He glanced down at the complacent mongrel at her side. "I can see that."

"He's a lot meaner than he looks," she warned.

He knelt, held out his hand and Gabriel came over to sniff for more bacon. "Nah, he likes me. Don't you, boy? Good dog," he crooned, burying his hand in the soft fur. "I used to have a dog just like this. Maybe they came from the same litter."

The notion seemed to intrigue her. "Gabriel just showed up at my house one day. I always wondered where he came from." She paused as an unwelcome thought struck her. "You're not going to claim your dog ran away or something, are you?"

"No, he died. Someone poisoned him."

"On purpose? Man, that bites." She dropped to the grass beside Gabriel, dinnertime and her earlier reticence forgotten. "What kind of psycho would do something like that to a poor, helpless animal?"

"Someone evil," he said. "Someone without a soul."

Their gazes met and he saw her shiver. "My sister keeps bugging my folks to get rid of Gabriel. She hates him."

"Are they going to?"

"Probably. My dad takes her side every damn time. They both make me sick."

Her anger caused his heart to beat even harder. He had to take a couple of breaths to curtail his excitement.

Sarah wrapped her arms around Gabriel and gave him a squeeze. "They'll be sorry, though, won't they, boy?"

"What are you going to do?"

She lifted her thin shoulders. "I don't know yet, but I'll think of something."

"Maybe I can help you."

Her expression turned suspicious. "Why would you do that?"

"Because that's what friends do. They help each other out."

"Newsflash, retard. We're not friends. You don't even know me."

Oh, but I do, Sarah. Still he had to be careful, not push too hard.

"And anyway, I don't need your help and I don't want any friends. Gabriel is all I need." Her tone was harsh and defiant, but he, and only he, could see the bereft shadow in her eyes.

His chest tightened; he knew that pain so well. They were so much alike, he and Sarah. Dark, sad, lonely. Her solitude drew him like a newborn baby grasping for its mother's breast.

She scrambled to her feet and dusted off the seat of her jeans. "Hey, I'm sorry I called you a retard."

He smiled. "That's okay."

"No, it's not. I hate when people call me that."

"Who calls you that?"

She answered with a shrug. If she noticed the edge in his voice, she didn't let on. "Are you coming back out here tomorrow?"

"I will if you want me to."

"Like I care one way or the other, I was just asking."

But that was a lie. She did care. Whether she knew it or not, she needed him as much as he needed her. She'd come back tomorrow because she wouldn't be able to help herself.

Sitting cross-legged in the grass, he watched her cut across the edge of the field toward the road, Gabriel at her heels. The air chilled as the twilight deepened, and he knew he needed to be on his way, too. The voices inside his head were getting more desperate by the moment. He was out of time. He couldn't ignore them any longer.

He rose and stood listening to the bells pealing in the distance. Death music. He smiled. A serenade for the doomed.

It arrived with only a whisper through the magnolia trees, a creeping shadow, an unwelcome presence easily ignored until a bitter cold front swept down from Canada, bringing freezing rain and record-breaking temperatures all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. Downed power lines, disrupted city services, massive pileups on the interstates--it was the kind of chaos New Orleans hadn’t known since Katrina.

Even without the inconveniences, Sarah DeLaune hated the cold. Earlier as she listened to sleet pelt against her windows, she’d been gripped by a strange anxiety, and she found herself wondering how she would cope if summer never came again. If the winter storm raging outside her house was not merely an anomaly, but a permanent shift in the sub-tropical climate of the Gulf Coast.

As she fantasized about being trapped in a frozen universe, she’d slipped so deeply into the gloom of her own thoughts that even the Valium she’d taken mid-morning couldn’t dig her out.

She’d recognized the early stages of cabin fever, and in spite of the incessant warnings issued by the weather service, she’d gone out, precariously negotiating the icy streets to the French Quarter where she found the seedy bar that had been her hangout of late warm and inviting.

The party atmosphere, along with a few drinks and half a Xanax, had nudged her toward a mellower outlook, and at midnight she’d gone home to bed, eventually sinking into the kind of bone-melting sleep she hadn’t known in months.

She’d been dreaming about her dead sister when the phone woke her up. She had no idea how long it had been ringing because even after she opened her eyes, the sleep demons held her firmly in their grasp. Rachel’s disembodied head floated above the bed, and the barest hint of sulphur hung on the chilly air, then another piercing ring sent the nightmare skittering back to the darker realm of Sarah’s subconscious.

Her movements lethargic and dream-like, she sat up in bed, willing her hand toward the receiver. But the caller had given up. In the ensuing quiet, Sarah could have sworn she heard the ghostly ticking of her alarm clock even though she’d unplugged it days ago.

Leaning back against the headboard, she wondered how long she’d been asleep. She wanted to know the time, too, but not enough to get up and go find another clock. Nor did she check her phone to see who had been calling at so late an hour. A phone call after midnight was never a good thing.

Her first thought was that her ailing father had taken a turn for the worse. When she’d been there a week ago, the doctor had warned her that the old man had only a few months at best. The doctor had tried to break it to her gently, but he needn’t have worried. Sarah would hardly be grief-stricken when the time came. She and her father had never been close. Sometimes, when he looked at her with the same old contempt, she wondered why she even bothered. She could have drifted along quite happily in their estrangement if Michael--Dr. Garrett--hadn’t persuaded her to try and make amends before it was too late.

He liked to tell her that avoidance wasn’t a solution, but Sarah wasn’t so sure about that. Sweeping her problems under the rug had worked pretty well for her in the past. Might have continued to work if the insomnia hadn’t forced her back into treatment. And now, thanks to her visits back home, the nightmares had also returned.

She jumped, realizing that she’d drifted off again. Sitting upright in bed with her eyes wide open. She hadn’t been asleep, but the last few moments—or had it been hours?—had passed without her awareness. Now the phone was ringing again.

Sarah waited a moment, hoping the caller would give up like before. When that didn’t happen, she reached for the phone with a sigh as she glanced out the window. Just beyond her tiny courtyard, the dead branches of an oak tree windmilled in a frigid gust.

She recognized the voice at once, and his exasperated tone was like the prick of a needle against her spine. How like Sean Kelton to think she had nothing better to do, even in the middle of the night, than wait for his call.

“It took you forever to answer and now you won’t say anything. It’s like you’re there, but you’re not.”

Sean fell silent. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a bit. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.”

“I didn’t know I’d awake you up,” he said defensively. “You never sleep unless...” His voice trailed off with the slightest edge of accusation. "What are you taking these days?”

“That’s none of your business. You gave up the privilege of poking around in my private life when you moved out.”

Hang up, a little voice urged her. Just press the button and make him go away.

His voice was so familiar, the regret it stirred was still so deep that Sarah’s free hand reached out for the pill bottle on her nightstand. Not finding it in the dark, her fingers scrambled across the wood surface.

“It may not be any of my business, but I still care about you, Sarah. I’ve been hearing things lately that worry me.”

“What, are you spying on me now?” The crab-like hand searched through the nightstand drawer and closed, like a claw, around a plastic medicine bottle. She cradled the phone against her shoulder as she twisted off the cap, then dry-swallowed half a Xanax. The bottle was alarmingly empty.

“I’m concerned about you. I know how you get when you drink. Especially if you’re still popping pills.”

Another pause, one that seemed filled with his own regret. “You get reckless.”

“There’s a difference between being reckless and self-destructive. Took me a while to figure that out, but I see it pretty clearly now.”

No, she really didn’t, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to ask any more than it would have let her chase him down the morning he walked out.

Looking back, Sarah realized that he had been trying to tell her for weeks it was over, but she hadn’t wanted to hear it so she refused to listen. She’d been out running errands that morning, and she’d noticed something different about the house the moment she walked through the door. But she hadn’t stopped to consider what it might be. Instead, she’d gone into the kitchen for coffee and that was when she found his note propped against the sugar bowl.

You’re going to hate me for this, but I did what I had to do. If you want to talk, I’ll listen, but I don’t think there’s much left to say at this point.

Sarah had folded the note and slipped it into her pocket as she walked calmly into the bedroom, opening the door of the closet as if trying not to set off a bomb.

Sean’s side was always a mess, but not that morning. His clothes were all gone. Suits, pants, shirts, everything. Nothing left but a couple of hangers dangling from the rod and a crumpled shirt on the floor.

He’d cleaned out the bathroom, too, and as Sarah walked through the house, she saw what her subconscious had noted earlier. Missing CDs and books. His laptop. Favorite pictures.

And now here he was, nearly a year later, calling her in the middle of the night.

“Just get to the point, Sean. I’d like to go back to sleep sometime tonight.” Although she knew that wouldn’t happen. She was wide awake now.

“All right,” he said in a resolved tone. “I’m calling because I need your help.”

“It’s not personal. I need your help with a case. We’ve got a body covered in ink, but no ID. I was hoping you’d come have a look, see if you recognize the artist.”

Sarah clutched the phone, trying to ignore the surge of adrenaline that already had her heart hammering. She reminded herself that Sean Kelton never did anything without a motive. “Why me?”

“Because I couldn’t get your partner on the phone,” he admitted. “And because you know every tattoo artist in the city. Come on, you always loved working my cases with me. You were good at it, too.”

“We could wait and do it there, but I’d rather you come now. The body hasn’t been moved yet, and I’d like to get your take on something at the crime scene.”

“I’m a civilian, Sean, they’re not going to let me waltz through a police barricade without some kind of credentials.”

He hesitated. “Yeah, that could be a problem, but I’ll take care of it. I’m sending a cruiser to pick you up. It’s getting nasty out here. I haven’t seen an ice storm like this since I was a kid.”

In spite of her protests, Sarah was already scrambling out of bed, reaching for a pair of clean jeans from the stack on top of her dresser. An urgency she couldn’t explain drove her, but her movements were still sluggish and it seemed to take forever to locate a shirt.

Which meant he’d dispatched the car before he called...or else the crime scene was that close to her house.

Grabbing her keys from the hall table, Sarah stepped out on the porch. The icy wind cut through her blue jeans as she struggled with the lock. Then she turned and hesitated at the edge of the porch before negotiating the frozen steps.

Snow flurries whirled over the street and drifted like feathers down to the lawn. Her tiny front yard was white and glistening, a winter wonderland that would vanish as soon as the sun came up.

Sarah hated the cold, but even she could appreciate the rarity of a snowfall in New Orleans. It happened maybe once every thirty years. She wanted to take a moment to enjoy the pristine tranquility of the night, but instead she found herself scouring the icy darkness, searching for the evil that had been awakened by her nightmare.

No matter where she went or what she did, he was always there, watching, waiting, creeping so close at times she could smell the death scent he wore like cologne.

He’d gone away after Rachel’s death but Sarah’s dreams always brought him back. He was out there tonight. She could feel him…