Lycan Alpha Claim 3

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “Hang on, kids,” Dad said, without looking up from his pulse.

  Mom was still fumbling with her stuff. She tucked her dedicated pulse-reader into her purse.

  “Mom, seriously? The DR?”

  I guess she'd die without a book to read.

  We walked toward the building, which was all height and glass. It looked like a giant sea-green jewel spearing the sky. The huge sign on top read, “Seattle Post-Intelligencer” in electric-blue letters.

  Inside, we got in line for the pulse body scan. Terrorist threats were such a damn drag. All points of entry: police, fire, media were all protected by Pulse-scan.

  A rotund gal with a perma-bored expression stood at the ready with the Pulse-wand, primed to do the next wand pass. “Come forward please. Arms up, turn around. Next.”

  I knew Jonesy was going to have trouble with the urge-to-laugh-at-inappropriate-times when he started to cover his mouth. This problem of his was terribly contagious. Thankfully, Jade and I were already through the line.

  But John wasn't.

  Out of the three of us, John being the most serious personality, had the worst trouble calming down once Jonesy began laughing.

  John tried, he really did, but Jonesy burst out laughing the instant the dour TSA worker said,“Next.”

  John doubled over, laughing. His face turned tomato-red.

  The TSA gal made it worse by spluttering, “Young man, stand up!”

  Jonesy yelled, “Anal probe! Right here!” and pointed over the top of John's back. Which caused John to roar with laughter, falling down hard on his bony ass.

  The TSA agent flattened her lips in a thin line.

  Dad stepped in and said, “I'm quite sorry about their behavior. It's been a trying day. They're a bit... giddy.”

  The TSA woman looked down at John, who had tears streaming out of his eyes. “Straighten up right now, young man!”

  John whooped, trying to make a mad dash that looked like a drunken stagger.

  Mom and Jade had mouths hanging agape, even my laid-back parents were somewhat embarrassed.

  John's mouth started to twitch, but he managed to contain it. He was still making the funny mouth, trying not to burst out again, Mom was talking sternly to Jonesy, his back to us.

  “I'm really sorry about that. I don't know what my problem was.”

  “Arms up,” humorless said. “Turn-around. Next!”

  John, suitably chagrined, walked over to Jade and me.

  Dad, last through security, motioned for us all to huddle up. “Come close, fellas.” When we all leaned in, Dad looked straight at Jonesy. “I better not have any more of this behavior. Jonesy: control your bullshit.”

  Jonesy blanched. I had ever heard Dad swear. A silence fell over our loose circle.

  Dad straightened. “Follow me.”

  He strode off. Jonesy and John trailed behind with their tails between their legs. I took Jade’s hand, and we walked beside Mom.

  ***

  Tim Anderson just flat-out didn't believe us.

  Dad tried to reason with him, but Anderson interrupted my dad with, “Dazzle me, guys.” He looked at me. “Can something die and you raise it?”

  I gaped at him. “What? You mean like right here?”

  Anderson shook his head and turned back to my dad. “Listen, Dr. Hart, I know you're the principal scientist with regard to the genome map. Terrific. But do you really expect me to put my—excuse me, ladies—nut-sack on the line for some wild stories about a five-point AFTD running amok with his friends and some shadowy government co-op dispatched to acquire him?”

  He's starting to piss me off.

  Dad began drumming his fingers on Anderson's desk. He looked as angry as I felt.

  Mom huffed. “What would we have to possibly gain from making up a story about our own son?”

  Anderson shrugged. “Who knows? I get whack-jobs all the time coming in here and spraying their lies all over. I'm not inclined to believe things on hearsay. I'm a journalist, guys.”

  Dad slapped his hand on the desk, rattling the glass pen holder. “We are not crazy or making things up.” He waved at Jade.

  Anderson leaned back in his chair, unfazed by Dad's outburst.

  “Jade, show Mr. Anderson what's going on.”

  Jade stood and walked over to Anderson. A predatory smile I’d never seen before played on her face.

  “What are you doing, girlie?” Anderson asked her.

  Jade just smiled wider then touched his shoulder. He jumped.

  “Seeing,” she answered.

  Emotions flew across her face as she read Anderson.

  Anderson pushed her hand away. “That's enough of that.”

  He looked pretty shaken.

  Jade turned to Dad. “He wants an exclusive if he can have proof. Otherwise, it's just a wild goose chase.”

  “Are you quoting him?” Mom asked.

  “Yes... no. I mean, people think in images, and I saw geese in his head and him chasing them.”

  “It's an old expression,” Anderson said quietly.

  “He wants to go to the ghost cemetery,” Jade said.

  He glared at her.

  “Well, you didn't believe us,” I said.

  Dad stood. “Let's do it. You see some of the evidence, and then you write something. Seems clear cut.”

  “He will,” Jade said.

  “Must be a nice skill, girlie,” Anderson said.

  I grimaced.

  “It's Jade, not 'girlie.’”

  CHAPTER 36

  The cemetery was exactly as I remembered it, except instead of being silvered by moonlight it had a hazy white quality. The evening sun hung low in the sky, slanting through the trees.

  Tim Anderson strode forward, moving between the tombstones and heading toward the caretaker's cottage. He arrived at the front steps and turned around to face us. “Where, oh where, is the crashed stealth chopper? The gun casings? The knives? The remnants of battle?”

  We all started scouring the graveyard. Apart from a few tromped-down places of flat grass between the graves, there wasn't a mark anywhere. I couldn’t believe it. There was no way they could have cleaned this place up overnight.

  Jonesy opened his mouth, and Dad held up a finger in warning. I guess Dad was up to here with Jonesy.

  Jonesy nodded then calmly asked, “What about the tombstone that got whacked by the chopper blade? And what about the blade that got stuck in the ground?”

  We sprinted to the spot where we thought the chopper had landed. The marker was gone, completely gone. Only the hole where it had been was left.

  “They took the whole damn thing!” Jonesy yelled.

  Anderson bent down and trailed his fingers over the displaced dirt that hadn't been exposed in over a century. “You might have something here.”

  John yelled from a few feet away, “Look at this!”

  We ran over there. Well, we kids ran. The adults sort of walked fast. John pointed at a place where a huge gouge had been dug in the dirt. On either side was a crescent-moon shaped swath, like a smile, with the center being a deep well.

  “Just a minute.” I ran over and grabbed a long stick from the nearby patch of trees. I returned and stuck it into the hole until I felt it touch bottom. I put my fingers on the stick at the lip of the hole, then pulled it out and held it against me.

  Dad said, “That’s about four feet.”

  “Looks like you guys might have been telling the truth,” Anderson said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking up at the sky, then back at the wound in the earth. “Let’s go back to my office.”

  *

  Back at Anderson's office, where we passed through security unscathed by hysterics, we sat for a solid hour, telling our story. His pulse recorder loaded everything directly to his pulse-top.

  A couple of times, Anderson remarked or asked a question to clarify something. But mostly, he just listened. Finally, we were finished.

  “Well, that's one hellu
va story there. A real humdinger. I can understand you coming to me, or someone like me. I will do my best, tonight,” Anderson said.

  “Tonight?” Dad asked.

  “Yeah, my boss is going to be thrilled. But better than that, it offers a little protection for your kid there.” Anderson pointed at me. “I'm not a real introspective guy, but I'd say you've been given something special. It's how you use it that'll make a difference.”

  Standing up, he offered his hand to Dad. “Sorry I was so tough on you in the beginning. It's been a pleasure. You've got a good kid here, Dr. Hart.”

  “You can call me Kyle,” Dad said.

  He smiled at me. “I know we do.”

  “Those other two though...” Anderson waggled his finger at the Js. “They may be trouble.”

  Then he laughed, taking the sting out of it.

  CHAPTER 37

  The article came out and sensationalized the paranormal community. People believed what they wanted to believe. Some thought it was a greatly exaggerated story about a bunch of teenagers who got together to be wild in cemeteries. Others thought the government was putting its nose where it didn't belong, endangering the new generation of kids.

  Still others thought the drug cocktail gave humanity a key to power that came with a huge price tag.

  Having survived the last few months, I had to agree.

  Summer rolled out like a great sea of time before us. I had an awesome girlfriend, a terrific dog, and my best friends, the Js.

  Life is good.

  But in the quiet dark of my room, questions pressed at me before sleep took hold. Where was Parker? What had they been planning for me? What had caused the electrical problem that ultimately saved us? Were we finished? That little voice in my head didn't think so.

  A few days later, Jonesy asked if we could go raise some zombies. I told him no. I was zombied out.

  But someday, that would change... sooner rather than later.

  THE END

  Read More: Death Speaks, Book #2

  OR

  The Death Series, Books 1-3

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  THE PEARL SAVAGE

  A Savage Series Novel

  Book 1

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2010-11 Tamara Rose Blodgett

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  www.tamararoseblodgett.com

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  Prologue

  1890

  Samuel lay on his back, gasping for air like a fish out of the sea. They had done all they could. Now the burden rested with their descendants. His gaze lingered on the house he loved, covered in ash, the sun no longer a bright orb in the sky, but shrouded in gray. A hush fell over the pewter wasteland. Cold seeped into his marrow inch by insidious inch. Many would enter the spheres constructed by the Guardians. Their saviors spoke of selective population, which rang false to Samuel, or true, as the case might be. His grandchildren were safe and beyond the pale of this time, this world he was leaving.

  He let his head roll limply on its side, where his gaze captured Mae, also prone with a strange contraption with hand-hammered copper and a complex, inky black netting covering the greater part of her nose and mouth. Leather straps braided and wrapped her skull, pushing strands of hair around like lost silver. She made odd, whistling noises as she breathed.

  “Samuel, wear it.” Mae’s voice was distorted as she lifted the matching mask the Guardians had fashioned in the preceding months.

  “No, Mae. I wish to enjoy this fore-night without the chains of their advances.”

  Samuel knew his stubbornness would cost him his life. The Guardians, who were equal part savior and bearer of terrible news, had made concessions for the elders. But those who survived would be the strongest, most virile, agile, and smartest among them. Samuel and Mae both understood at their advanced age of sixty and one years that they would be excluded from the mercies of the sphere.

  With blurred vision, Samuel saw a familiar figure approach.

  “Father! Why do you not take rest in your own bed?” Stella’s comely face was a salve in his approaching death. Her wool skirts swirled as she knelt and set an illuminated candle, hissing steam from its seams, beside him.

  Raising his hand, he cupped the loveliness of her face, knowing the time had come for her to enter the sphere the Guardians had constructed for the select. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Papa, the Guardians have told you that you might survive... All is not lost.”

  Samuel put a finger to her lips. “Silence now, child. This is your place now. Do not forget the things you have been taught. Take this, Dear Heart. Hold it safe to your breast. Guard it. It is our history.” Samuel handed her a slim leather book bound with a black silk tie.

  Stella pressed it to her chest, tears overflowing down unprotected cheeks. Mae's eyes met hers. “Go now, Stella-girl. Take the opportunity you have been given.”

  Her knuckles whitened as Stella clutched the book. Misery etched its path on her countenance. “It will never be the same without you both.”

  A clear bell-tone pealed, reminding Stella of duty, her duty to leave her parents behind. The knowledge of her future, the safe environment of the sphere, was a burden on her heart.

  Stella turned to look at the sphere shimmering in a watery iridescence like a giant cloche. But people were not plants. Their future safekeeping was a promise of a life with a family fractured by separation.

  Stella bent to kiss Samuel and Mae goodbye. Gently unwinding the facemask the Guardians had constructed, she placed a kiss, soft as butterfly wings on the woman who had nurtured her. The skin gave way like tissue-thin silk under the pressure of her lips. Turning to her father, she saw his pale blue eyes watering. She cradled his head while she pressed a kiss to his forehead. She lowered his head and took a last lingering look, knowing this was the final time she would view her parents in this realm.

  Lifting her skirts, she pivoted away, dropping them as she walked—no, as she ran—brushing tears from her cheeks, the book clutched tightly in her other hand, the candle hanging from its copper loop in her squeezed finger. Approaching the doorway to the sphere, she was the last select to be ushered inside. Casting one final glance, she saw her parents’ supine forms, their clasped hands held tightly, her mother's mask forgotten beside her.

  Stella whirled toward the entrance, losing hold of the book, dropping it on the ash-laden earth. She picked it up, her last gift from Father. Seeing the title, she peered closer: Asteroid: A History of When the Rocks Fell.

  Stella moved forward as the hole closed behind her. A fierce idea bloomed in her consciousness to remember who they had been. An indeterminate future stretched before her.

  CHAPTER 1

  One Hundred Forty Years Later

  Clara beheld the shrouded exterior as she did each morning, her hands pressed against the pliable interior of the sphere. Her fingers sank into its surface, stopped before breaching the Outside. The yearning was the same. She wished to experience the Outside.

  Sighing, Clara turned from the misty view outside the molded window. Her petticoats swept together, wrapping her bare legs, as she found the stockings laid out for her on the bed.

  Olive knocked on the door. “Mistress, may I enter your chamber?”

  “Yes.”

&nbs
p; She entered with scads of rich turquoise steam-pressed clothing draped over her arm. Clara hated it, hated it all.

  “Princess.” Olive inclined her head.

  Clara recognized she was penalizing Olive unfairly. Who truly wished to celebrate her Day of Birth? Utter nonsense.

  Olive peered at her Princess from under her lashes. She was a formidable young lady with aquamarine eyes that flashed with energetic temper, deep mahogany hair cascading to her waist—very handsome but uncooperative when it came to dressing.

  “Please, Princess, they await your appearance.”

  “Does my mother?”

  Olive knew that the Queen was deep in her cup, and it was not yet midday. “Our Queen has begun her own celebration.”

  No surprise.

  Clara’s people wished to see her adorned in her finery (a loathsome pursuit) to be reminded that she was their Princess, the one who saw to their happiness, unlike her mother, the Queen, who failed them at every turn.

  Olive interrupted her musings. “My lady, please employ the bedpost.”

  Grabbing the stays that bound the corset, Olive took up the slack. Reaching the end, she pulled with all her might. Clara gasped. “Must it be so tight? I cannot breathe properly.”

  “It must be hand-span.”

  Finally, Olive bent to use the shoe hook on Clara's high heels, each button a luminescent mother-of-pearl.

  “Do you not think you are agreeable, mistress?”

  Clara gazed at her image. Creamy expanses of pale skin met the weak light from the sphere window climbing up to a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and strange-colored blue eyes, a dark fall of hair that was fiery red in a certain light, brushed her hips where they swelled. Her mother would be pleased, she supposed. But Clara wanted to change into the waistcoat and linen skirt she wore when she visited the oyster fields.