Predator

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Copyright © 2014 by Janice Gable Bashman

PREDATOR by Janice Gable Bashman

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Edited by Lindsay Leggett

Published by Month9Books

Cover and typography designed by Victoria Faye

Cover Copyright © 2014 Month9Books

In memory of Devorah Kay Gable.

And for Sam—you inspire me, always.

Without those who gave so willingly of their insight and expertise,
Predator
would not have existed. Thanks to genetics and anthropology expert Mark Stoneking of the
Department of Evolutionary Genetics at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology and to bioanthropology expert
Ronald G. Beckett, Professor Emeritus in the Department of Biomedical Sciences at Quinnipiac University, for their invaluable help with the technical information in this book (any errors are the author’s fault). My thanks to David Naughton-Shires, Patricia Prior, and Cathal Walsh for all things Irish; to automotive expert Lee Parkin; and to Marie Lamba, Nancy Keim Comley, and Al Sirois for their suggestions and input regarding early drafts of the manuscript. Thanks to Frannie Townsend, Maggie Stohler, and Caroline Stohler. Many thanks to Kathryn Craft whose keen eye and top-notch editing skills helped shape the manuscript. And thanks to Lisa Pistilli, Robyn Gable, Donna Galanti, Tori Bond, Lisa Papp, Rita Ashley, Sara Jo West, Lorie Greenspan, Lisa Gressen, and The Liars Club for your continued encouragement and support.

Very special thanks to Jonathan Maberry. You are a true inspiration, great friend, mentor, and colleague. Thanks for always being there for me.

Many thanks to the men and women in the armed forces who serve our country—true heroes in every sense of the word.

Heartfelt thanks to my wonderful husband, my dad, and my brother. You’ve made my life richer, and I’m honored to have you as a part of it.

And finally, thanks to my agent Lucienne Diver, my publisher Georgia McBride, my editor Lindsay Leggett, and the wonderful team at Month9Books.

“
Predator
is a fast-paced, creepy page-turner! Bashman had me at the opening sentence and she's still got me. I want more!”

— Nancy Holder,
New York Times
Bestselling Author,
The Rules

“I thought I had read all there was about werewolves, until I read Ms. Bashman’s novel. WOW.”

— Kimberly S. Mason

“If you like Teen Wolf, you should read
Predator.
”

— Nick Rosenburg

“Cool book. Love the cover and the vibe. Will definitely read her next book in the series.”

— Vanessa C.

“Thanks for letting me read
Predator
by Janice Gable Bashman. Not what I expected at all. Really loved the different take on werewolves.”

— Anna Brand

Galamonga Peat Bog, Connemara
, Ireland

Bree Sunderland stared at the body and didn’t know which was worse—that her dad wouldn’t let her touch it, or that she really wanted to.

She’d never seen any dead bodies, just body parts, like the hands and feet and hearts and livers he stored in those huge liquid-filled mason jars back home.

But this was different.

Big time—she was the one who had discovered the body.

“It’s amazing isn’t it?” Her dad hiked up his jeans and squatted with his hands on his knees, leaning in as close as he could without touching the bog body; his work boots squished in the moist Irish peat.

Amazing didn’t even begin to describe it.

The body looked so life-like, especially after being buried in the bog for so long. The man lay face up with his right leg jutted out at an odd angle. His gaping mouth revealed two bottom teeth and a broken upper front tooth. His nose and ears were mashed against his skull as if someone had pressed them there, and his cheeks were sunken. Bones and large veins were outlined clearly beneath his dark brown skin.

Bones once strong, like her brother’s.

Troy.

That horrible, haunting bugle playing “Taps” at Troy’s funeral resounded in Bree’s head.

A sudden breeze dashed across the bog and sent chills down her arms.

“Dad?” she said.

“Yeah, Bree?”

“Is this what…?” She sucked in a short breath. “Is this…?” She couldn’t continue. Sure, she had wondered for a second. But she really didn’t want to know what Troy’s body looked like.

Her dad turned around and looked up at her, clearly annoyed. “What is it?”

There was not an ounce of compassion in his voice. The only thing he seemed concerned about was the bog body. She shoved Troy from her thoughts and refocused on the body.

“I can’t believe he still has skin,” she said, forcing her tone to sound normal. “You can see every wrinkle. It looks like leather.”

“That’s the power of the bog. The cold mixed with the acid in the peat and the lack of oxygen touching the body preserves the flesh. Kind of like an ancient mummy.”

“How old is he?” Bree asked.

Her dad drummed his fingers on his knee. “I’m not sure. He could be thousands of years old. I’ll know better later after I run some tests.”

Thick uneven scratches on the bog body’s upper arm grabbed Bree’s attention. “What are those strange marks?” she asked. As she reached forward she slipped, lurching toward the body.

Her dad shoved her back with both hands, and she landed on her side.

“Why’d you do that?” Bree said, eyeing him with disbelief.

“I had to protect the body.”

“You chose a dead body over me?” The question hung in the air, gaining meaning with each passing second. Ever since Troy’s death eight months ago, right after Bree’s sixteenth birthday, her dad had been more pre-occupied with Troy’s absence than her presence. Whenever she tried to talk to him about it, the topic always changed back to that one, simple fact: Troy was gone and nothing was ever the same once you lost a child.

“You would have crushed it,” he said.

Bree didn’t even try to stifle her anger. “We wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t found it. And I could have sprained my wrist or broken a finger. Did you even consider that? Or didn’t it even cross your mind?”

“But you didn’t. And you know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

Her dad extended a hand to help Bree up, but she ignored it. She pushed to her feet—the right side of her clothes, face, and hair were covered in wet peat—and brushed off the front of her sweatshirt. She heard laughter from behind and turned toward her dad’s assistant Kelsi, who had returned from the field tent with her cameras. Kelsi was a local he had hired—along with Conor and his cute son Liam—on the advice of his colleagues at the Ireland Archeology Institute where they were working that summer. “It’s not funny,” Bree said.

Kelsi slung a camera strap over her neck and slid it back and forth until the Nikon hung evenly. “You’ve got gobs of peat everywhere.”

“So what? It’s still not funny.” She was relieved Liam wasn’t here to see her like this.

Kelsi pressed her lips tightly together and struggled to suppress her smile. A moment later, she snorted and then burst into laughter, infectious if only because she was typically so aloof and quiet.

Bree wiped the peat from her cheek with a clean sleeve and tightened the scrunchie holding back her hair. Kelsi reached over and pulled some peat off Bree’s forehead.

“Thanks.” Bree turned toward her dad and said, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Her dad didn’t answer. He was already engrossed in a visual exam of the body.

Bree had decided to come along on this trip to help her dad find a way to get back to work. Losing Troy had plunged him into depression, and the failure of his wound repair serum that had promised to save other soldiers with injuries like Troy’s had made it worse. It was great to see him in the field again, where he felt so alive. But she hadn’t meant to sacrifice him completely. She still needed him too. She’d give everything to have things the way they were before. Even if it meant she never would have met Liam.

Bree climbed the crudely-formed steps carved in the peat and crossed the bog to the field tent, where she found Conor examining soil samples.

He broke into a broad smile. “What happened to you?”

Bree’s mind carved the words from his thick brogue. After three weeks, she was getting better at it. “I gotta change.”

“Right.” He bent back over his samples.

“You mind?”

“I won’t look at you. Just trying to get this done.”

Bree crossed her arms. It was bad enough changing in front of everyone in the locker room at school, but at least they were all girls and not Liam’s dad. “Well how about doing something else?”

Without saying a word, Conor wandered off toward her dad and Kelsi. Bree scrubbed off what peat she could using a bucket of water and, in clean clothes, joined the team a few minutes later with the rich, earthy smell still clinging to her.

Kelsi was snapping pictures of the man’s head, and Conor was taking a soil sample next to the feet. Liam had returned from the van with the stretcher and was mapping the rest of the area; he smiled at her and then got back to work. Her dad looked like he hadn’t moved a muscle since Bree left him.

Bree stepped to her dad’s side and saw that he had finished uncovering the last section of the torso. Her eyes locked onto four deep gashes, almost parallel, in the skin on the torso’s left side. Each gash was at least six inches long, and there was a ragged tennis-ball-sized hole directly below them. “What are those?” she said, pointing.