First Full Moon

by Michelle Alstead

  First Full Moon

  MICHELLE ALSTEAD

  Copyright © 2018 Michelle Alstead

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  For Candy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Carla Gull, Brian Kaufman, and Rachel West for their editing contributions.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The windows are shut and the blinds drawn. A space heater warms my bedroom to a balmy eighty degrees. As I stand in the middle of the room, a cold draft blows past me, raising the hair on my arms and neck.

  Someone is watching me.

  Will it be my time soon? Will I be the next one taken?

  “That creepy frown on your face is going to cause premature wrinkles,” Larkin says.

  My cousin lies across my bed, her black combat boots dangling off the edge as she scrolls through her phone without pausing long enough to read anything. She chews gum and blows a bubble that pops, covering her mouth. Larkin doesn’t seem to mind that strands of her long, raven-black hair brush the gum she pries from her face.

  “I’m fifteen and too young for wrinkles,” I reply, moving to the window and opening the blinds. From the third floor, I can see everything and everyone in front of the house. The driveway and yard are empty. Not a soul to be seen anywhere.

  “You turn sixteen in like five hours.” Larkin’s only a little bitter I’m the oldest grandchild.

  Even though I can’t see anyone, there’s someone watching me. I feel it.

  “Ugh, stop with the paranoia. No one’s out there.” She waves her hand, motioning me away from the window. “Step away and put the weirdo back in the box.”

  “I’m not paranoid or weird. I’m just . . .”

  I’m just scared to death my sixteenth birthday will be my last. It’s not a fear that’s based in reason It’s just a nagging suspicion that won’t leave me alone. Releasing the blinds, I make my way to the floor-length mirror near my closet.

  Larkin snaps her gum. “Paranoia is the first sign of madness.”

  I study my reflection. My long blonde hair annoys me. I’m one-eighth Japanese, but you can’t tell by this mane. Dyeing it might help, but Grandmother would kill me. She nearly had a heart attack when Larkin put a temporary blue streak through hers. “Seriously?”

  She groans loudly. “No, but you’re obviously nuts the way you’re always worried about being taken.”

  Taken.

  Our very polite alternative to kidnap.

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t worry. It’s been at least twenty years since a McGregor was taken,” I say.

  “At least.” Larkin sits up and sighs. “If you’re really worried, let’s call Branson to come get us.”

  “The butler? Why would you call Grandmother’s butler?”

  Larkin chuckles. “You don’t really think a guy like that is just the butler?”

  Branson is tall, muscular, and frequently gets mistaken for being a bodyguard.

  “Well . . .” I grind my back teeth.

  Larkin rolls her eyes. “He’s not a butler any more than McGregors get taken because we’re rich.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, in every generation at least one McGregor goes missing, and we’re supposed to believe they were ransomed because we’re rich?” She stares down her nose at me.

  I shrug. “Why else—”

  My cousin stands up and folds her arms. “If it were really about money, don’t you think we’d all have bodyguards?”

  I turn away from the mirror. “Well, we have gotten martial arts training and boxing lessons. Obviously, Grandmother’s concerned about our safety. It’s not like we’re allowed to go beyond this town.”

  I’ve never seen the ocean, a big city, or set foot outside of Sequim Falls. Meanwhile, my father is a world traveler who’s never around.

  “Candy, I love you, but you shouldn’t believe everything Grandmother and our parents say. You’re too trusting, cuz.”

  “I am not,” I retort, heading for my closet.

  She leans her head to the left, raising her right eyebrow. And just like that, Larkin has won the argument.

  Facing the mirror again, I study my outfit. McGregors are expected to dress for family dinner. Well, everyone but Larkin anyway. Running my fingers through my stick-straight hair, I agonize over my look. Will Grandmother approve? Should I curl my impossibly straight hair? She hates it when my hair gets in my face. Curling might help. Or maybe I should just change.

  Larkin gets up from the bed and goes to my desk in the corner on the opposite side of the room. She picks up the small wooden box I meant to hide. Using a chipped, black fingernail, she traces the ornate circle carved in the top. “Did you go vintage shopping without me?”

  Crossing the room, I take the box from her. I scan the room, looking for a place to hide it and settle for placing it under my pillow. I don’t know why I’m compelled to hide the thing. It’s not like I stole it.

  “Candy?”

  “I found it in the basement.”

  Larkin frowns. “But you never go down there. You’re afraid of spiders.”

  Sitting on my bed, I straighten the pillows covering the box. “I know. It’s just I had this feeling I should go down there and go through her stuff again.”

  “Your mom’s stuff? Is your dad is still holding onto all that?” She flips her hair back. “My therapist would say he lacks closure. Personally, I think he lacks a life. We should get him an online dating profile. Uncle Dartmouth needs to process and move on.”

  It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. “New shrink?”

  “Yep. Daddy is still looking for a miracle cure for my anxiety. But back to the box. What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t get it open.”

  “Oh.” She blows another bubble. “How come we never found it before? I mean we must have gone through those boxes at least twenty times.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe magic made it suddenly appear.”

  Larkin laughs. “Right. Like there’s anything magical about the McGregors. We could not be more boring.” She glances around my room. “How about we get a screwdriver and pry it open?”

  I jump off my bed. “No, we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it was my mom’s, Lark. I remember seeing her with it once right before she left. I asked her if I could look inside. She said that someday when the time was right, the box would open for me.”

  She gives me a slow nod. “Okay.”

  My cousin doesn’t pretend to understand how it feels to be abandoned by my mother, a fact I greatly appreciate. Resting a hand on the pillow, I long for a connection to the woman who gave me life because my mother doesn’t seem real anymore. I was only five-years-old when she left. With each passing year, I wonder if she ever really existed at all. Pushing thoughts of her aside, I head for my closet. I can’t disappoint Grandmother. Bad things happen when I disappoint people.

  “What’re you doing?” Larkin asks.

  “Changing my outfit!”

  “No, you’re not. You’ve changed it five times already. You aren’t chairwoman of the board just yet, so how about you pull on a pair of leggings, and we head to dinner?”

  “Chairman,” I reply.

  “Uh, not in my world,” she answers giving me both a shake of her head and wag of her index finger.

  Larkin’s cooler than me. I’ll admit it. Half Puerto-Rican and a hundred-percent passionate, she’s vibrant in living color while I’m milk toast—bland inside and out.

  My cousin eyes my clothes. “Let me dress you.”

  “No, Larkin.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m still not over the time you cut my bangs off, painted
my nails black, and posted my profile online.”

  “You needed a date for the school dance.”

  “We were nine!”

  I face my closet, thumbing through my wardrobe for something less business-like but still formal enough to please my grandmother. “There’s nothing. This is literally the best thing I have to wear.” I tug on my cream color blouse and eye my navy blue skirt. I turn around with my hands on my hips.

  Larkin gives an exaggerated yawn. “And it’s boring.” She checks the massive oversized watch that I’m pretty sure she stole from her dad.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Time for you to put crazy aside and hurry up. Grandmother hates it when the golden child is late.” She chews bubblegum with her mouth open. “Now I could skip family dinner altogether, and she wouldn’t even notice.”

  “She would notice, and I am not the golden child,” I say, twisting my pencil skirt so the seams run in a straight line down my hips.

  “Yes, you are. Bennett’s the jock. Jasper is the computer genius, and I’m the rebel for no reason. We all have our parts to play in this family.”

  A sigh escapes my lips. I could easily pass for a school secretary, or maybe a librarian. My blouse, a silk import from some place I could never pronounce, is a gift from our grandmother. Sweat forms beads across my upper lip. I fan my face with my hands, panicked at the thought of sweating in silk. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I have a choice in what I’m wearing.”

  My cousin sighs. “You always have a choice, Candy. You’re just too set on making the right one.”

  She’s not wrong.

  I never asked to be singled out or shown any preferential treatment. Being the first-born grandchild wasn’t something I had a say in. But I am, and with that come responsibilities.

  “Go put on the blazer that matches the skirt and let’s go,” she says, tapping her watch with a fingertip.

  I turn around, take two steps toward my closet, and abruptly stop as a hand lands on my shoulder.

  Larkin throws a punch at the back of my head. I don’t see it coming, but I feel it, ducking and spinning around. Throwing my right leg out, I connect with the back of her knees, knocking her feet out from under her. She lands on her back, brown eyes filled with annoyance.

  “How did you do that?” she asks, flipping up from the ground and landing on her feet.

  My right leg is forward, my fingers balled into fists. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you hear my swing?”

  “No, but I knew it was coming.”

  “How?”

  “I sensed it.”

  Larkin’s thick, brown eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t know if that’s really cool or just weird.” She exhales. “My mom would have landed the punch.”

  “Your mom is a cop.”

  “Retired cop but whatever.”

  A dull ache forms between my eyes. There isn’t room in my head for both Larkin’s mommy issues and mine.

  She switches gears. “Imagine how bad-A you’d be if you spent less time painting and more time training. You might even be a black belt by now.”

  I shoot a glare at Larkin. We don’t talk about my paintings or the fact that I won’t allow anyone in my studio.

  “Relax, I’m just saying you shouldn’t worry so much. It’s not like you’re going to die young.”

  Except I dream at least once of week that I’m burned alive before I make it to my seventeenth birthday.

  I walk back into my closet, and grab the matching blue blazer. My cousin doesn’t need to know that dying isn’t just a fear—it haunts my every dream and painting is the only thing that keeps me from cracking. Putting on the blazer, I muster the McGregor smile—no teeth showing, but cheeks pulled back far enough to fake happiness.

  Larkin’s eyebrows are matching arches that remind me of a black cat stretching into downward dog. “That is one scary smile.”

  “Only if you know it’s not real.”

  “Fair enough. Clearly, it’s a real burden being Grams’s favorite.”

  “She hates it when you call her that.”

  “Well, yeah. That’s why I do it.” My cousin grins, twisting hot pink bubble gum around her finger.

  “Have you ever considered just being nice to Grandmother?” I ask.

  “Nope. Why bother being nice when she barely knows I’m alive?”

  “That is not true. She totally noticed when you showed up last month with a nose piercing,” I say, pulling the delicate strand of pearls from my jewelry box that my father gave me as an early birthday present. Chances are it is a guilt gift, as I doubt he’ll be around to wish me happy birthday.

  “That was sick. I thought for sure she was headed for cardiac arrest.” Larkin’s mouth turns upward with glee. “That look on your face is not happiness. I say we ditch dinner and head to the new pizza place in town. I hear Ryan hangs out there.”

  Ryan Connelly, new boy and all-around magnificent hotness. Every time I pass him in the hall at school, I can’t shake the feeling we’ve met before. I’ve never actually spoken to him, but he seems so familiar.

  “Candy?”

  “What?”

  “You’re drooling.”

  My hand goes to my mouth, which is dry. “You’re mean.”

  “Yes, but appropriately so. Since we don’t have siblings, it’s the responsibility of cousins to fill in. Now, let’s get you into something cute and find Ryan.”

  “You know the rules. No dating until we’re eighteen.”

  “That’s Grandmother’s rule. My parents are much more liberal. They’re willing to look the other way and feign ignorance if word gets back to Grams I’m dating.” Larkin moves to my desk. I spilled a cup of pens and pencils not bothering to reorganize them. She sorts them by function and then by color.

  “Sequim Falls is a small town, Lark. Everything gets back to her.” My right eyebrow twitches.

  “Alright, if you are going to ignore the new hottie who I hear has been asking about you,” Larkin places the pens in the holder and sweeps the pencils into a drawer, “then you really should change your outfit. Rebel before you lose your mind.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  A dull pain stabs me between the eyes again. “Because I have to wear it.”

  Not wearing it would disappoint my grandmother.

  Larkin throws her hands upward. “No, you don’t. You’re turning sixteen. Exercise your right to personal freedom and stand up to the queen! What’s the worst that could happen, princess?”

  “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

  The stabbing pain becomes a full-blown headache. My head morphs into a fifty-pound weight resting on my neck.

  “I just can’t say no to her,” I mutter, clutching my skull. “She’s the closest thing I have to a mother.”

  “At some point, Candy, you’re going to have to,” Larkin says, shaking her head.

  The pain searing through my cranium blinds me. Something wet seeps onto my upper lip. My fingers touch the sticky, coppery-smelling fluid.

  “Candy, you’re bleeding!”

  “Not again,” I mutter, stumbling into my bathroom adjunct to my closet.

  Larkin’s boots clomp behind me as I reach the bathroom sink. Blood oozes from my nose, splattering crimson drops across the pristine white sink. The pain makes it hard to think.

  “You have got to see a doctor,” she says, pulling my long hair back and turning on the faucet.

  My mind is lost in darkness. Combing through the void, I search for a comforting thought to push back the agony. “What were the words Grandmother used to say when we were little and got hurt?”

  “I don’t know. Should I call an ambulance?” She presses a cold washcloth into my hand.

  I hold my head over the sink, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No. My dad’s out of town again. Oksana would freak if we called an ambulance.” I hold the cloth over my nose. I’m not entirely sure my housekeeper is in the c
ountry legally. I remember the words. “One. Two. Three. Let this pain leave me,” I whisper.

  “That’s it! That is exactly what I used to hear Grams mutter every time my father screwed up at the company,” Larkin says. Her eyes are wide.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You went from pale-as-death to normal-colored when you said that. I think the bleeding even stopped.”

  The pain in my head is gone. Leaning closer to the mirror, I study my nose and find the blood gush has ended. “That’s weird. Maybe the bloody nose was brought on by stress.”

  “Well . . .” Larkin folds her arms across her chest. “You are pretty uptight with the whole need to be perfect.”

  “I don’t need to be perfect,” I say.

  “Really?” Larkin stares without blinking. “I’ve got a red leather jumpsuit at home. How about you wear that instead? ”

  “Well . . .” I rinse the cloth and wring it out. She’s right and we both know it. “I can’t,” I mumble, tossing the dirty washcloth into the hamper.

  “Are you sure? Cause there’s blood on your shirt, Candy.”

  My gaze goes to my new silk blouse. A crimson spot has spread across my chest, staining the delicate fabric. “Oh, no!” I push past Larkin and into my bedroom.

  “Come on, it’s not that big of a deal. I’m sure Oksana can get it out.” Larkin lingers in the bathroom doorway.

  “The car is supposed to be here in five minutes. Not even the best housekeeper in the world can wash, dry, and iron a blouse in five minutes,” I snap.

  “There goes the crazy again. What you should be freaking out about are the headaches and nosebleeds you’ve been having for the last month. We should skip family dinner and go to the hospital for a CT scan.” Larkin lives for the Discovery channel and all medical-related television. Once when we were little, she tried to talk me into letting her remove my tonsils.

  “No, I can’t go to the hospital.”

  I don’t want to go to the hospital. My mother went there and never came home.

  I turn away from my cousin, combing my room for a solution. Covering the blouse might work, but the wet spot is clinging to my skin. No, the shirt has to come off and be laundered. Do I have another white blouse? Even if I did, it would pale in comparison to the designer piece I’ve destroyed. I hurry to my closet.