Moon Tortured (Sky Brooks Series Book 1) (2 page)

I had seen the onyx-colored eyes, the fangs and the pale skin, and yet I couldn’t believe what she was saying. I turned into a werewolf every full moon, yet vampires still seemed to be folklore to me.

Taking in what she said and what I just relived, I did what all sensible people do when someone tells you something horrific, unbelievable and life changing—I ignored and avoided it. “Do you know what happened to my mother? Is she still at the house?” I asked. My voice was a hoarse and my lips trembled. The memory I had repressed so diligently surfaced with a vengeance, winding me: her lying on the floor motionless. Her pale blonde hair, which was usually pinned up, was fanned out around her face. She was frozen in a liminal state of shock and fear.

There was a long uncomfortable silence. Joan bit down on her lips; troubled eyes gazed at me briefly before they lowered to the ground. “The body is downstairs.”

The body is downstairs
. That same tight feeling that restricted my chest earlier had returned. It was debilitating. Heartbreak, it felt the way I imagined a heart attack would. You can’t breathe, talk or even think straight through the wrenching pain.

I pressed my eyes firmly together, forcing back tears.

“Would you like to see her?”

No, no, I didn’t want to see her. As long as I didn’t see the lifeless body, I didn’t have to accept it. I didn’t—I wouldn’t—I couldn’t see the body.

When she reached over to touch my hand, I jerked it back. Her eyes roved over the room and periodically she looked in my direction. “Some of your clothes are in there,” she nodded at the bag she brought in with her. “You should shower and get dressed. Maybe then you will be ready to see her.”

“Where am I, the address?” I asked, peering out the window, briefly appreciating the crowning beauty of the autumn. Being around her was a hell of a lot better than Ethan, but I didn’t trust her.

“The bathroom is over there,” she said, pointing to my right.

“The address?” I repeated impatiently.

Her smile deepened, revealing a small dimple at the corner of her right cheek. “You’re anxious, perhaps a warm shower and food will ease you,” she continued in that soothing voice that people often used with children during their tantrums. “I will be more than happy to answer your questions afterward.” Her insolence was vaguely buffered by the mildness of her voice. It was apparent that until I did what she said, I wasn’t getting any answers.

“Why do you change locked in a cage rather than the woods,” she inquired before I stepped into the bathroom. Of course they went through my home. Did I really think they wouldn’t?

She knew what I was and I didn’t have the energy to deny it. I looked over my shoulder. “Because animals belong in cages.”

The look eclipsed her face so quickly; it was a flash, easily missed. She looked aggrieved, perhaps even offended. “And the sedatives?”

“It doesn’t like being caged, and I haven’t found a way to put it down without killing me.” I glanced down at my wrist. The years had faded the scar into a thin light line; but it was a constant reminder of how much I hated that part of me. At fifteen, the typical teenage angst, pimples, and a gangly body that didn’t want to cooperate, was further complicated by my horrid transformation into a wolf. The moon called and I responded. My body pulled and contorted to torturous limits, ripping at my humanity until the only thing left was the unfamiliar feral animal—a werewolf.

I gave in to the depression and the iniquity but it refused to be put down. The only thing I accomplished that night was hurting my mother and realizing I wasn’t as strong as I thought. That night, she vowed to make my life as normal as possible. I changed into a wolf every full moon. How normal could my life be?

I lifted my gaze to meet Joan’s; it was just a beat as it dropped from mine. She saw the scar where I had slashed my wrist repeatedly with a silver blade. Too many assaults to the same area prevented it from healing well. It left me scarred with a constant reminder of what I had done. I waited, watching her reaction, anticipating the horror, the intrigue, even the concern. And there it was―concern. The same look my mother gave me when I spoke of the wolf as though it were a separate entity. My mother always wanted me to embrace it, but I couldn’t. As far as I was concerned, it was an unwelcomed guest that showed up once a month despite my objections. It was a plague, a betrayal of my humanity, and I refused to accept or embrace it. Instead, every full moon, I would lie locked in a cage and sedated until it was all over. At least I could pretend my life was my own and I was somewhat normal.

“I’ll be here with some food when you’re done,” Joan stated with a plaintive smile, which I quickly realized was a mask.

If taking a shower was supposed to calm me, she was mistaken. Instead, it heightened my anxiety; fight or flight egged me on to respond. On the countertop were
my
blow dryer,
my
curling irons,
my
toiletries,
my
Sonic toothbrush and
my
beauty products. I stared at the counter. Yes, these were
my
things placed neatly on a
stranger’s
bathroom counter. I rummaged through the cabinets, the linen closet and the medicine cabinet, not quite sure for what. My head was starting to ache as I tried to make sense of this.

Had I been abducted? If so, they sure were some thoughtful criminals to care about my comfort. I tried to make light of the situation because if I didn’t, I was going to spiral into a panic. The woman who stared back at me from the vanity mirror didn’t make things better. I looked terrible. My thick curly hair was barely contained in the braid. Olive skin that usually looked vibrant was now dull and blanched. Desolate eyes reflected back at me, darkened to the point that they looked jasper rather than emerald. I quickly pulled my gaze from the mirror.

For a brief moment, I considered fleeing out the small window just above the garden tub. Instead, I sat on the edge of the tub, formulating a plan on how to make an escape. I could go through the bathroom window, but for some reason I felt like I would be met with the angry psycho from my earlier attempt. If I could manage to get past Joan, could I get past the people I heard downstairs? I showered, taking an exceptionally long time; part of me hoped Joan would have given up and left. I opened the overnight bag with
my
clothes in it and put on a t-shirt and pair of yoga pants. I’ll give it to them: they were oddly meticulous and thoughtful, which should have comforted me, but it didn’t. Weren’t psychopaths and serial killers usually meticulous?

When I walked out of the bathroom, Joan was seated in a chair next to the bed. A waiter’s cart sat next to it with an assortment of sandwiches that filled the room with alluring scents. My stomach began to rumble.

“Please have a seat,” she patted a spot on the bed near her. Slowly I walked toward her, watching her intently as I sat further away than the spot she pointed, closer to the door.

“Why am I here?” I asked.

“Eat; you must be famished. You’ve had quite the night,” she urged in that same gentle voice. It was still soft and warm but it no longer soothed me. Instead, I now found it irritating because I figured she was doing it to manipulate me. It was hard to break the social rule and be a raging jerk to someone who was being exceptionally kind. She slid the cart of food toward me. There were several roast beef sandwiches, bags of chips and sliced fruit. I usually liked my sandwiches warm but I was too hungry to let something like that stop me. Discreetly, I sniffed the sandwiches. They seemed okay. I hesitated for a moment before I took a bite. I was on my second sandwich when she inched toward the edge of the chair.

Studying me, she seemed distracted by her own thoughts. After long moments of intense silence, she asked, “Do you know why the vampires were after you?”

“No. But I’m sure you do,” I challenged, waiting for her to explain why Ethan and his crew of hostile strangers were at my home. “Joan, is it?”

She nodded.

“Why am I here?”

Her smile broadened as her gaze wandered. I suspected she was getting her story together or establishing a believable lie. “The vampires have taken a special interest in you.”

“And?” It came off harsh and ruder than intended but I hated having to extract information question by question. Her thin lips curved into a demure smile, trying to defuse my growing exasperation. I continued, tone crisp, gaze jarring, “Ethan rushed in like they expected them to be there. As though they were just waiting for them to strike. What do you know that I don’t?”

“Their attack was anticipated but the reason is unclear. We’ve been petitioned to keep you safe.” Her tone and inflection was cooler now, more professional.

The tension that came off her made me uncomfortable. She was withholding but I wasn’t sure how much. Was my mother really downstairs?

“I want to see my mother,” I admitted. If she were really here, then I could determine how much trust I was willing to put in Joan. If she took me downstairs, I could explore the retreat and plan my exit strategy.

She nodded slowly and I followed her out the door down the long hallway. As we descended the stairs, the footsteps and sounds of movement seemed to come to a hurried stop. They scattered at my approach. Now those noises were nothing but phantom sounds from people I could never identify. I As I followed her to the left, we walked past the large great room decorated for function not design. Two solidly built sofas were at the opposite ends of the room separated by muted geometric-patterned accent chairs. A large dark leather ottoman was placed in the middle. If I were watching one of those design shows on HGTV, they would call the room something catchy like “modern chic meets functionality” as a bubbly designer fixated on the mundane details of the decor.

What I saw was furniture that was so durable that it couldn’t be broken. It had two deep claret-colored sofas that could easily hide most stains, most likely blood. I smelled it in this room. Blood had been spilled many times throughout it. With a normal sense of smell, when blood is washed away, so is the scent; but for me, it was only dulled to the point that it could be ignored.

I stayed close to Joan as she took me around the corner and we passed another room, which I assumed to be the living room. In most households, the room’s only purpose was to showcase elaborate decorative furniture, art, and collectibles. This room was slightly different. The sofas were a luxurious tan, more traditional, still durable. Instead of an ottoman in the center of the room, there was an ornate wool rug. Unique pictures of wildlife and nature covered the walls. The rust and cream paint were blended together in an intricate and charming faux finish. Yes, it was aesthetically pleasing, but it also hid the subtle markings and dents of a battered wall. I wondered who or what battered them. This may be the room they used to show a more refined side of themselves, but blood had been spilled in this room as well.

I couldn’t help but wonder why the people who resided in or visited this house had so many accidents, lost so much blood, bled so often. My curiosity was a weighted vest, making it hard to continue following Joan. I wanted to make a mad dash for the nearest door and probably would have, but I had to see my mother.

I trailed her down the lengthy hallway through plain white double doors into another hall. It looked like an addition to the house. After a left turn, I found myself in a hospital—rather a home version of one. The walls were white and sterile and the floors were the same high-gloss tile that you see in doctors’ offices, hospitals, and clinics.

It’s not that I had a lot of experience in doctors’ offices or hospitals. My mother was a pathologist. When I needed a doctor, she was there. I rarely needed her in that capacity. As a child, I wasn’t plagued with the same childhood problems as others. Broken bones? Not a chance. If I fell from a tree, I would walk away unscathed. A skinned knee was healed before you could get the bandages out of the box. I never had a cold, flu, or even the chickenpox, yet I had somehow built up the antibodies. My mother did the blood work, things like that didn’t just happen without her poking me with a needle, and drawing blood to find out the why.

Those things should have clued her in that something was very wrong with her daughter. Perhaps she knew and did an excellent job of hiding her
my-daughter’s-a-freak
look.