Unleashed (Dark Moon Shifters #1)

by Bella Jacobs

  “Tell him I’m sorry. I walk slowly. It’s my fault.”

  Kite’s lips soften into a genuine grin. “I think it was the kissing, not the walking, that slowed us down.”

  I blush as I return his smile. “Hmm…could be. But I’m not sorry about that. Not even a little bit.”

  “Me, either,” Kite says, taking my hand. His palm is twice as large as mine, and his fingers far longer and thicker, but as we twine our hands together, it feels like they were meant to fit. It’s so perfect I can barely keep myself from breaking out into a Snoopy Dance of happiness right there in the middle of the sidewalk.

  I tell myself to relax—it was just a kiss, something most twenty-four-year-olds do all the time without having a coronary about it—but my heart keeps pounding so hard and fast it feels like it’s going to punch a hole in my ribs. Finally, I lose the battle against a goofy little giggle.

  “Come on, let’s get you on the train.” Kite laughs with me, clearly not concerned about playing it cool. “Uncle D has waited this long. He can wait a little longer.”

  “Are you sure? I’m fine to walk alone if you need to go,” I say, hoping he can tell I don’t mean a single word of that nonsense.

  Kite’s nose wrinkles. “Nah, screw that asshole.” He freezes, his lips pulling to the sides as he winces. “Sorry. I forgot about the language ban.”

  “It’s fine,” I assure him. “We’re not at work, and I won’t tell.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Anytime, motherfuckah,” I say in my best impression of Eli, our resident gangster, making Kite throw back his head and laugh so hard I can feel the vibrations in my chest.

  I bite my lip and bounce lightly on my toes, ridiculously pleased that my joke is going over so well. I rarely let the raunchier side of my humor out to play with anyone but Carrie, and that’s usually only after she’s let me have a puff of her joint in an attempt to spur my appetite into action. My parents are firmly anti-marijuana therapy—they say pills from a doctor are the only drugs their generation can get behind—but pot helps me feel hungry on days when the mere thought of putting food in my mouth turns my stomach.

  And I figure what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

  Speaking of things they don’t know…

  I weigh the fun of telling Mom and Pops that I met an amazing man against the backlash that will follow when they realize Kite works at the C of H, but isn’t a card-carrying member of our movement, and decide to keep this afternoon’s developments to myself.

  I can tell Carrie, however, and I will…soon.

  But for now I want to keep that kiss and this incredible laugh of his—how have I known him for four months and never heard this big, booming belly laugh?—to myself.

  “You’re funny, Bird Girl,” he says as we start toward the station hand in hand, the fondness in the words making me happier than I have felt in ages.

  “Thanks. But don’t tell the board. They think I’m a very serious person.”

  “It’ll be our secret,” he assures me. “So you’ve never slipped up and let a curse fly at the shelter? Even when you walk into the dorms and realize Lance hasn’t washed his socks in three weeks again?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet. I got close the time I dropped a giant pot of chili on my foot, but so far, so good. At least at work. I do occasionally horrify my parents with a salty phrase during my monthly transfusion therapy. The meds they add to the donor blood burn so badly going in,” I add, finding it so much easier to talk about this stuff now that I know being sick isn’t a dating deal-breaker for Kite. “But I think they’re more worried about me horrifying the nurse than anything else. She’s Church of Humanity, too, and her parents are both elders, so…”

  Kite squeezes my hand. “That sucks.”

  “Tell me about it. Having one elder parent is bad enough. Poor Tricia, I’m sure she can’t blow her nose without one of her parents telling her she isn’t doing it right. Makes me glad my mom and dad are just normal followers and pretty laid back about all the covenants.”

  “Yeah. That’s not what I meant, but…good for them.” His tone clearly communicates contempt, but I can’t quite tell who it’s for.

  Tricia? The elders? The movement in general?

  Surely not my parents…

  Just in case, I say, “Mom and Pops are definitely keepers. Since the day they adopted me, they’ve stood by me. No matter what. No matter how sick I got or how much my treatments cost or how long it’s taking me to finish growing up and fly out of the nest. Hank and Abby are my rocks. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

  Kite can have contempt for my movement or the elders all he wants—there are days when I get punch-the-wall frustrated with the bureaucracy of it all—but if he goes after Hank and Abby, we’re going to have a problem. Hank and Abby aren’t just my adoptive parents; they’re my friends and people I love with all my heart.

  Thankfully, Kite squeezes my hand with a smile and says, “Hopefully you’ll never have to find out,” making it clear he gets where I’m coming from. And then he says, “And I hope you can meet my mom someday soon. She’s the coolest, and she makes the most kick-ass sticky cinnamon bread. You’ll love her,” and my heart is so busy soaring I forget all about the uncomfortable moment that came before.

  Kite wants to introduce me to his mom!

  His mom, who he adores beyond all reason and who is the most important person in his life. He wants me to meet his most important person! Which means he must think I’m fairly important, too.

  Again, I’m struck by the certainty that most women my age aren’t as easily elated by something as minor as meeting the folks, but my illness kept me well behind the curve when it comes to dating.

  And falling in love.

  And all the rest of it…

  Sex, Wren. If you can’t even say the word to yourself, you’re a lost cause, girl.

  But I’m not a lost cause. That kiss proved it. I can experience desire as deeply and profoundly as any of the heroines in my favorite epic novels, and from here on out, who knows what’s possible? I swear, the kiss even made me feel better. As Kite and I climb the stairs to the train platform, my legs are strong and steady, and by the time we reach the top, I’m only a little out of breath.

  “See you tomorrow?” I pause in front of the turnstile, taking my time pulling out my train pass, secretly hoping for a repeat performance of that kiss.

  “Not if I see you first.” He leans down, pressing his lips gently to my forehead before he whispers against my flushed skin, “Get home safe, beautiful. And hang in there.”

  “I will,” I promise, butterflies launching in my chest as he steps back, winking at me before he turns and jogs down the stairs, moving with that easy grace of his, so different than most of the big men I’ve known in my life.

  But Kite isn’t like any of the men or boys I’ve known. He’s special, and he thinks I’m beautiful, and he kissed me like a real girl, not a person made of glass.

  No, he kissed me like a woman.

  As I claim my seat on the train, I gaze at the reflection staring back at me in the smeared train window. Same long, rather limp black hair, same pale blue eyes, same too-thin face, but there’s something different about that chick…

  That lady looks like she has a secret, a flame smoldering deep inside her, and a few tricks up her sleeve.

  She looks like a woman with a reason to feel hopeful about the future.

  A woman who’s finally been thoroughly, properly kissed.

  Chapter 3

  Wren

  I walk the last few blocks of my evening commute through pink sunset light, arriving at my front door just as the sun is slipping beneath the waves, that familiar musty sea scent welcoming me home.

  At the end of our street, at the bottom of the last hill standing between civilization and the relentless encroachment of the sea, a massive concrete structure holds back the tide. But it will only stand firm for so long. At some point in th
e next fifty to sixty years, the ocean will overflow our puny mortal dams and levees and take possession of more of our coastlines, devouring more of the world’s famous cities and landmarks.

  On most days, the wall is a sobering reminder of how feeble human beings are beside the immortal forces of time and tide. But today, the sight of all that endless, churning sea unfurling to the horizon makes me giddy with possibilities.

  There is an entire wild world out there to explore; there are mysteries waiting to be discovered and treasures waiting to be hunted, and I have been Kissed with a capital K, and suddenly the tight square frame hemming in my life has widened to a sweeping panorama.

  I know I’m still living in the same condemned skin I left home in this morning, but logic is no match for the love bug, and I’ve been bitten hard.

  It’s probably just a crush and will most likely proceed the way my previous crushes have proceeded—a few rapidly cooling dates as my dude realizes how early I have to go to bed, a couple of lukewarm follow-up phone calls, and a terse breakup via text—but even as I try to talk myself back to earth, I can feel my heart soaring higher, riding giant fluffy eagle wings of anticipation.

  Pushing through our weather-ravaged front gate, with the peeling paint Pops finally stopped fixing as it became clear the sea air was going to keep winning that battle, I tiptoe across the paving stones to our front door, careful not to step on any of the spring veggies filling every inch of the front yard. The garden used to be a backyard affair, but in the past few years, since Pops retired from the plumbing company he ran for nearly forty years, the garden has spread like a rash.

  A delicious, oh-so-tasty rash…

  My dad has a green thumb like nothing I’ve ever seen, and soon our spring and summer dinners will be overflowing with healthy treats. It’s barely the first week of May, but already the asparagus are shooting elegant stalks from the dark earth next to baby spring lettuce with leaves like tiny fairy wings. The vegetables are as lovely to admire as they are to eat—arranged in paisley-shaped beds that form a quilt of green in front of our white bungalow—but today, I don’t stop to soak in the botanical art.

  For the first time in weeks, I’m actually eager to get to the dinner table. Mom’s a killer cook, but the meds that help me get out of bed usually have the nasty side effect of turning my stomach to acid by five o’clock. By the time I get home from serving the kids dinner at the shelter, it’s always after six and I’m sporting a bilious lava pit where my belly should be.

  But today I’m ravenous, starving for food as well as for new and fantastical experiences with irresistible men.

  Maybe I’ll call him after dinner, I think as I push through the door, calling, “I’m home,” as I hang my jacket on the hook by the door.

  After all, I’m a grown woman, and I have Kite’s phone number. Why not call him and tell him how much I enjoyed our walk home? Why not ask him if he wants to meet up for lunch this weekend or maybe a walk around downtown? Kite doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would care if a girl makes the first move, and I prefer not to waste time I could be getting to know him better, staring at my cell, waiting for him to call me.

  One of the good things about living on borrowed time is that it makes you brave.

  Ballsy, even.

  I grin as I head into the kitchen, anticipating the smell of veggie lasagna or roasted chicken, one of Mom’s Thursday night staples, but the sunny kitchen is empty and the stove still and cool.

  Nose wrinkling in disappointment, I turn, searching the backyard, figuring that’s where my parents must be whiling away this lovely evening. Sure enough, I spot them by the far end of the fence, but instead of up to their elbows in potting soil, they’re both huddled around Mom’s phone, anxious expressions tightening their features. The worry creasing Mom’s pale brow reminds me they aren’t getting any younger.

  The Frames adopted my sister and I late in life, after they realized they couldn’t have children of their own. Now, Pops is pushing seventy, and Mom’s not far behind at sixty-five. Her blond bob is now more gray than gold, and all the fretting she’s done in the past twenty years—first over my sister and then over me—is starting to show on her face.

  Sadness worms through me, banishing the giddiness that followed me home. I know Mom and Pops chose Scarlett and me with their eyes wide open—they knew we were both sick when they signed the adoption papers—but I can’t help feeling guilty sometimes. Knowing a child is ill is one thing; standing by a kid you’ve come to love while they fight a losing battle for life is another.

  I know it’s been hard on my parents. Especially when Scarlett started lashing out, and then later, after the addiction treatment facility where they’d sent her to get help burned to the ground.

  If only the police had been able to recover her body, maybe it would have been easier on all of us. Maybe we would have been able to grieve and move on instead of turning to search a crowd every time a woman with Scarlett’s particular autumn-leaves shade of red hair walks by. But Scarlett’s dorm was right above the blast. When the furnace exploded, it obliterated the first floor, sending the entire Greater Good treatment center sagging into its foundation.

  The police said it was deliberate—a makeshift bomb likely fashioned by one of the troubled kids housed at the facility—and that whoever had detonated the device was no doubt dead, as well.

  They shared the news in a way that inferred we should find that comforting.

  But another kid dead didn’t make anything better. It didn’t bring Scarlett back, it didn’t assuage my parents’ guilt for sending her away in the first place, and it didn’t give any of us closure. We grieved for a long, long time, and we’re still not the people we were before we lost my sister.

  Still, I haven’t seen Mom look this worried in years. Even after Pops ends the call and their conversation becomes something private, her brow remains furrowed and her lips turned down hard at the sides.

  The realization sends a shiver across my skin, lifting the hairs on my arms and at the back of my neck. Before the goody-two-shoes voice in my head can talk me out of eavesdropping, I slip to the back door and creak it slowly open, straining to catch part of the conversation outside.

  “It could work. It could change everything…” Pops’s voice is deep, solid, but tinged with doubt.

  Mom takes his hand, giving it a firm squeeze as she assures him, “It’s going to work. She’s going to get well, and the future will be wide open for our baby. She’s going to have a real life and real hope and maybe, someday, precious babies of her own. Can’t you imagine? That beautiful life for her?”

  The words send tears springing to my eyes. I know how much my parents want me to get well, but I’ve never heard either of them sound so desperate. That, more than anything else—my exhaustion or the rest of my symptoms—makes me realize how close I am to the end, how quickly my time is running out.

  I move away from the back door, pressing a fist to my lips as my throat works, willing the wave of emotion to pass. I have no idea what my parents are talking about or what’s given them hope this time—hopefully not another quack doctor wanting to pump me full of pomegranate juice mixed with flax seed oil or something equally pointless—but I have to pull myself together before they come in, or they’ll realize I’ve been listening to things I shouldn’t.

  Sucking in a breath, I close my eyes and try to relax, but all I see in the darkness is Scarlett’s face, gone fuzzy around the edges because my weary brain has started to forget what she looked like.

  Chapter 4

  Wren

  I’m about to retreat to my room to find my center, but before I can make it out of the kitchen, the door bursts open and my mom calls, “Wren, baby! There you are! Oh honey, I’m so glad you’re home!”

  A moment later, her arms are around me from behind, hugging me tight before turning me gently around and lifting her shaking hands to my face. She’s barely five feet and a smidge tall, a good seven inches shorter than m
y five eight, but Abby Frame has a presence that fills a room.

  I’m immediately enveloped in her warm energy and the glow of her smile as she says, “It’s happening, sweetheart, the day we’ve been praying for.”

  “What’s happening?” I glance up at Pops, who’s still standing by the door, his muddy boots on the mat.

  He smiles tentatively in response, hope and caution warring in his brown eyes as he waves Mom’s way. “Let Abby tell it. She’s the one who found the doctor. She should get to share the good news.”

  I shift my focus back to Mom, forehead furrowing. “Another doctor? Mom, you know I’m happy to go see anyone you want me to see, but I’ve already been to—”

  “Not just a doctor,” Mom breaks in, practically prancing in place as she grips both of my hands tightly in hers. “A research scientist and doctor on the cutting edge of Meltdown virus research, who’s just put four children into permanent remission with his new procedure. Six months out, and there are no signs of the virus returning. And we got word this afternoon that the doctor has room for you on his schedule! You’re next on the list!”

  “Seriously?” My pulse picks up even as my brain fights to keep my blood pressure steady. The brain realized hope is dangerous a long time ago, but the heart never learns. “When? How? What are the success rates? The risks?” The questions spill out of me, but I don’t really care about those things. I’m ready for anything, no matter what the risk vs. reward ratio. If there’s even the ghost of a chance that I can get better, I want that.

  I want to live, to dream big instead of editing every ambition. I want to look into my future and see endless possibilities and love and maybe those children Mom was wishing for.

  My head spins with excitement, making it hard to concentrate on her words as she begins to lay out the details of the procedure.

  But by the time she gets to the risks, I’ve regained my focus.