Forsaken (The Netherworlde Series)

FORSAKEN

Book One in The Netherworlde Series

by Sara Reinke

Edited by Jennifer Barker

Published by Bloodhorse Press, LLC at Smashwords

www.bloodhorsepress.com

Copyright 2011 Sara Reinke

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

DEDICATION

To Reading Ecstasy (my precious Squishee) and Karla Dee, my awesome beta readers, and

to Jen B., my amazing editor. Also, for my friends in Louisville Romance Writers, who won’t let me lose faith in myself, no matter how hard I try. Last but not least, to my readers, without whom I would just be a weird old lady henpecking on my computer compulsively.

G
LOSSARY

Wyrm
– a parasite indigenous to the Netherworlde that resides in its host form’s brain and controls conscious awareness and physical movements

“Did you just say you were going to add
shit
to my menu?”

Jason Sullivan couldn’t resist, even though the smart-ass comment earned him a kick in the shin, one he rightly deserved. Samantha had been chattering, happy and excited as she unzipped a leather portfolio, pulling out three-by-five recipe cards and rattling off the names and contents of each to him. She was in culinary school and he’d agreed to let her cut her teeth on the menu at Sully’s, his pub.

He sat across from Sam in one of the bar’s back corner booths after hours while around them, waitresses wiped down tables, stacked chairs and collected ashtrays. As he spoke, her mouth spread in a broad and beautiful grin as she punted him playfully beneath the table.
“
Pupus,
”
she said. “It’s Hawaiian. I said maybe we could add some tropical flare with some
Kamaboko
dip or another
pupus
recipe.”

Sam looked toward the bar, where a solitary customer remained, perched comfortably on one of the bar stools, nursing the last of a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft. “What do you think, Bear?” she asked. “Polenta bites with marinated mushrooms, steamed clams with chorizo or the
Kamaboko
dip?”

Theodore “Bear” Phelps, her uncle, was a narcotics detective on the police force, a big, burly man with an appropriate nickname. He pivoted enough in his seat to glance between Jason and his niece and drop a wink. “I’m not going to eat shit either, Sammi.”

Jason laughed and now Sam booted him hard beneath the table, pretending to scowl. “Oh, hilarious,” she muttered, shaking her head, stuffing her recipes back into her portfolio. “You two should give up your day jobs, try some stand-up comedy.”

“Which reminds me…” With a laugh, Bear slid from the stool. “Some of us actually have to work for a living come tomorrow morning.” He hooked his jacket off the back of the stool, shrugging it across his broad shoulders as he approached the table. “Thanks for the beer, kid.”

As Jason accepted Bear’s handshake, he could see the curious and pointed look in the older man’s eyes:
So, are you going to do it tonight or what?

Sam’s parents had died in a horrible car accident. She’d only been a little girl, just seven years old. Though she’d been in the car, seriously injured when the ambulance had sped through a cross-street red light and slammed into the side of her father’s station wagon, she’d told him she’d never been able to remember much about it. “And what I do…” she’d always said with a shaky, sorrowful laugh. “Well, it isn’t pretty.”

Jason had asked Bear, who’d practically raised her, for permission to propose to Sam weeks earlier. But ever since gaining this blessing, Jason had fumbled, floundered, foiled or otherwise fucked up any and every opportunity he might have had to actually pop the question.

The previous weekend would have been perfect. Jason had taken Sam to Holiday Island, a crappy little fleabag amusement park out on the wharf, and at the end of the day, they’d ridden the Waterfront Eye, a towering Ferris wheel that offered a nearly unobstructed panoramic view of the city and seascape below. They’d stopped at the very top to load some of the cars below, and Samantha had leaned out, giddy as a child, her mouth spread in a delighted grin.

“Look,” she had exclaimed, pointing out toward where the horizon and ocean came together in a barely discernablediscernible seam. Here, they could see beyond the expansive mouth of the bay, out into the Pacific Ocean, where major international shipping lanes converged. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

He should have asked her then. The moment had been perfect. He’d had the ring with him, a simple gold band offset with a small square-cut diamond that he’d scrimped and saved for months to buy, in case just such an opportunity had presented itself. He should have asked, but in the end, he’d chickened out. The Eye had started turning again, delivering them to the ground once more, and the moment had been irrevocably lost.

But not this time,
he told himself, and as he met Bear’s expectant gaze, he nodded once, making the older man smile.

“We’ll walk you out,” Sam said to her uncle, sliding toward the edge of the booth bench, reaching for her coat.

“No, you stay here. It’s pouring outside. And you know what they say.” Bear leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. “Sugar melts in the rain.”

She smiled, dutifully charmed, then began in protest, “But you don’t have an umbrella.”

Bear laughed. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, turning and walking away with a wave. “You know what else they say. Shit floats.”

Jason followed Bear to the front door, fishing his keys from the pockets of his jeans to lock up behind him. “Good luck, kid,” Bear told him, clapping his hand against Jason’s shoulder before ducking his head and hurrying out into the night-draped downpour.

Jason laughed, watching Bear dissolve into silhouette and shadows between spheres of street-lamp light. “Thanks, Bear,” he called.

Hopefully I’m not going to need it,
he thought as he closed the door again, locking the dead bolt in place. The ring was in his pocket, the same place it had been when they’d visited Holiday Island, the same place it had been at any given moment on any given day since then.

This time I’m going to do it,
he thought, and as he walked back toward the corner booth, Sam looked up at him and smiled, cementing his resolve. He shoved his hand into his pocket, feeling the ring with his fingertips, while Sam glanced back down at her portfolio, rifling through the contents again, looking for something.

Will you marry me?

The words should have come so easily, yet they wouldn’t. They felt stuck in his throat like a sharpened sliver of bone, choking him. He drew the ring against his palm and curled his hand loosely around it, still cradling it in his pocket, feeling his throat and tongue grow suddenly, anxiously dry and tacky. His heart had already quickened. He could feel it pounding nervously, sending a surge of adrenaline through him.

Nothing fancy. No down-on-bended-knee bullshit or anything like that. I’m just going to give her the ring and I’m going to say it. “Will you marry me, Sam?”

I’m going to do it.

“Oh, damn,” Sam said with a frown. Shoving the portfolio aside, she slapped her hand against the tabletop.

He stood there, hand in his pocket, ring in his hand. “What?”

She looked up. “I had my friend Melinda—the one who owns her own graphic design business? Anyway, I asked her if she’d come up with some menu ideas for us and she had some terrific ones, some layouts she’d printed out I really think you’ll like. Don’t worry. She’s doing it for free
.
I know you hate it when you think I’m sneaking behind your back, buying you things.”

“No, I don’t.” It just made him feel impotent, that was all, the fact that she had more money in her bank account than he would likely ever earn in his entire lifetime. Or ten lifetimes, for that matter.