by Bella Jacobs
I’m struck by the sudden certainty that the hand is mine—my toddler hand from long ago, from somewhere in the lost years I can’t remember.
It doesn’t make sense, though, all the sunshine and trees. I was rescued from a drug den in an industrial part of Seattle, where my mother was living with other junkies, selling her body for her next fix. It’s been inferred through the years—though never said outright by anyone, not even the therapist I saw for a year after Scarlett died—that there was a chance my sister and I were sold, too. That people did unspeakable things to us that are better off forgotten.
But the feeling that floods my chest as I watch my starfish fingers spread against a pale blue sky isn’t terror. It’s bliss. Innocent happiness. Certainty that I belong and I am deeply, profoundly loved.
And safe.
And…home.
Smells rush in, cedar and the same smoky-sour nut scent of black cottonwood from earlier today. Also raspberries and spring grass, sunshine-warmed skin mixed with the musky scent of fur and earth. Another flash of memory—a bed in a cool room where I sleep snuggled with half a dozen other children, all of us cozy in a puppy pile of contentment—and then I’m back in that field, reaching for the sky, certain I can touch the treetops if I wanted to. I could grow wings and fly, even though Mama says it isn’t safe for me to fly so young.
Mama…
Another scent—turpentine and vanilla sugar—slams into me so hard I flinch, followed by images and sensations flickering so fast inside I can barely grab hold of one before it’s replaced by another—full lips, big smile, green dress, blue water, peace, golden grass, fox tail, sharp teeth, safety, my hand, red hair, red fur, softness, love, full moon, fireworks, belonging and belonging and belonging until the fireworks are replaced with gunshots and then—
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I emerge from the rush of memory with a gasp.
I press my fist to my chest, where my heart is doing its best to crash through my sternum, and glance down at the screen to see an unfamiliar number. I answer without a second thought—some of the kids at the shelter have secret cell phones, even though they’re supposed to turn them over when they check-in, and I’ve been on the receiving end of more than one panicked after-hours call from a kid in need of a friendly ear.
“Hello?” I say, my voice breathy and weak from the hallucination.
That had to be what it was. I was two months shy of four years old when I was adopted, and I’ve never been able to access any of my earliest childhood memories, not even when my therapist attempted to guide me into the past under hypnosis.
There is nothing back there but static and blur.
Static…
A faint hum on the end of the line…
“Hello?” I say again. “This is Wren, can I help you?”
“You can help yourself,” a distorted voice garbles from the other end of the line, making my brows snap together. “Go to the window. Open it. Wait for a message.”
“What? Who is this? How did you get this number?” A click-click-click sound as the line goes dead is the only response.
With a shudder, I toss my phone onto my flowered bedspread, where it lies there contaminating the field of poppies. Heart racing, I start toward the door to call out to Mom and Pops, but pause at the last second, something deep inside me telling me to wait.
To think.
To remember…
My fingers dive into the front pocket of my jeans, closing around the lucky coin I carry with me everywhere I go. The gold warms immediately against my skin, sending a pulse of calm threading through my fear.
There was a phone call like that once before, wasn’t there?
A long time ago…
I bite my lip, tugging the coin out of my jeans and flipping it over the tops of my knuckles the way my friend Dust taught me when we were kids, fighting to resurrect the recollection from my graveyard of forgotten memories.
One of the side effects of being exhausted all the time is that the brain tends to prioritize certain functions over others. My body is focused on preserving the energy to keep waking up and walking around and processing food into energy from one day to the next. Archiving memories is way down the list on my biological to-do list, which means many entries in my personal history book are murky at best, blank pages at worst.
But that call…
The garbled voice…
Lifting the coin to hover in front of me, I stare into the eyes of the lion on the smoother side before flipping over to study the eagle with gnarled talons on the other. Sometimes watching the coin twirl in slow circles helps me focus, another trick Dust taught me before he moved away.
Or before he died. I’m not sure which story is true.
My parents told me Dust and his parents moved back to England to be closer to family. George, a fellow seventh grader who lived next door to Dust back in the day, swore he saw a body being wheeled out of his house on a stretcher in the middle of the night, just days before the family allegedly returned to the UK.
A small body, about the size of Dust at thirteen…
We were all sick, all of the kids at the Church of Humanity Chosen Charter School, and becoming increasingly familiar with death. We’d lost Grace over the summer between my fourth and fifth grade year, Vince before Halloween the following year, and both of the twins—Regina and Rafe—during the Christmas holidays mere months before Dust vanished without a trace.
But Dust…
The thought of him gone, vanished along with his fantastic stories and his magical way of turning every silly schoolyard game into an adventure, hit me hard. Even though he was two years ahead of me in school, Dust was my best friend, and the only person I could talk to about Scarlett’s increasingly wild behavior and how terrifying it felt for my sister to pull away from me. Dust listened with his entire self and set about solving problems like it was his mission on earth. Even at thirteen, it was clear that he was going to grow up to be an incredible person, one that fights to keep the lights on in an increasingly dark world.
So I told George to keep his lies to himself and chose to believe that Dust was out there somewhere, hiding treasures in his pockets and making up wild stories and being the same old Dust I’d known.
Years later, when I was in college and I received a waiver for the Church of Humanity’s ban on online activity so I could pursue my degree in social work, I tried looking for him. I hoped to find a social media page with his grinning face, or some sign that he was out there, alive and happy. But there was nothing. No birth certificate, no death certificate, no adoption forms filed in the state of Washington, not even an entry in the movement’s annual member registration database.
His parents’ names were still there, but he’d been scrubbed out.
Erased.
He must have left the movement as a Hostile Faction. Only those in open opposition to the Church of Humanity, those determined to undermine our mission to unite all people, are erased when they leave. Once I’d realized that, I’d stopped looking for Dust.
No matter where he was or what he was doing, he was a H.F. and forever beyond my reach.
But I kept this coin, the one he promised me would keep me safe.
My gaze softens as I spin the coin faster and the locked doors in my mind begin to creak open. I catch flashes of Scarlett at nineteen, at seventeen, and then Scarlett on the last day of her sophomore year of high school.
We’re having a party to celebrate. Mom and Pops and all our friends are out in the backyard. Scarlett and I are inside, preparing to bring out the box of cupcakes we bought for dessert—I’m insisting I get the only red velvet—when the phone on the wall rings. Scarlett picks it up, and there’s a voice on the other end, a deep, distorted voice telling her to take her sister’s hand and run to the front door.
Run. Now, the voice says, so loud I can hear it from by the refrigerator halfway across the room. I start toward Scarlett, watching her face pale and her eyes go wide. This may be our o
nly chance to get you out. The Frames aren’t who you think they are. You aren’t safe. If you stay, you and your sister will both die. Go. Now.
The phone falls from Scarlett’s hand, and I run to hug her, but I don’t remember what comes next…
I don’t remember…
A scratching sound on the other side of the room snaps me out of my trance, sending my heart jerking back into panic mode. Squeezing the coin in my fist, I spin to face the window.
Immediately, my gaze locks on the fat, fluffy raccoon perched on the sill outside, it’s onyx eyes sparkling in its brown mask. It’s an enormous creature with steel-gray fur shot through with white highlights and a damp black nose that wiggles up and down as it presses one eerily human hand to the window.
I shake my head, not knowing what to make of this night animal out at dusk and looking me dead in the eye with an intelligence that makes my skin crawl. But I’m glad I didn’t open the window the way the voice on the phone told me to do. If I had, that massive beastie and its teeth would be in my room.
That’s clearly what it wants.
The raccoon scratches plaintively at the glass, flinching when my mom shouts from the kitchen, “Wren, are you okay with red sauce on your pasta? Or do you want your noodles plain with a little butter and pepper?”
“Red sauce is fine, Mom,” I call back, pulse throbbing faster in my throat as the raccoon shakes its head like it understands what we’ve said and is against red sauce.
Or against dinner.
Or against me sticking around to eat it
“Definitely option three,” I note in a trembling voice as the raccoon lifts his—her?—other hand and presses a small, square sheet of paper to the window.
Even from ten feet away I can read the bright red words on it loud and clear. There are only two of them, scrawled in thick capital letters—Run Wren.
UNLEASHED is Available Now.
About the Author
Bella Jacobs loves pulse-pounding action, fantasy, and supernaturally high stakes, mixed with swoon-worthy romance and unforgettable heroes. She's been a full time writer for over a decade and is deeply grateful for the chance to play pretend for a living.
She writes as Bella for her trips to the dark side and can't wait to take you on her next adventure.
Visit her at www.bellajacobsbooks.com
Also by Bella Jacobs
Wolves of New York Series
Wolf King
Wolf Pawn
Wolf Queen
Wolf Mate
The Dark Moon Shifter Series
Unleashed
Untamed
Unbroken
Supernatural in Seattle Series
Fangs for Sharing
