Moon Tortured (Sky Brooks Series Book 1)

by McKenzie Hunter

  When I walked out of the bathroom, Joan was seated in a chair next to the bed. A waiter’s cart sat next to it with an assortment of sandwiches that filled the room with alluring scents. My stomach began to rumble.

  “Please have a seat,” she patted a spot on the bed near her. Slowly I walked toward her, watching her intently as I sat further away than the spot she pointed, closer to the door.

  “Why am I here?” I asked.

  “Eat; you must be famished. You’ve had quite the night,” she urged in that same gentle voice. It was still soft and warm but it no longer soothed me. Instead, I now found it irritating because I figured she was doing it to manipulate me. It was hard to break the social rule and be a raging jerk to someone who was being exceptionally kind. She slid the cart of food toward me. There were several roast beef sandwiches, bags of chips and sliced fruit. I usually liked my sandwiches warm but I was too hungry to let something like that stop me. Discreetly, I sniffed the sandwiches. They seemed okay. I hesitated for a moment before I took a bite. I was on my second sandwich when she inched toward the edge of the chair.

  Studying me, she seemed distracted by her own thoughts. After long moments of intense silence, she asked, “Do you know why the vampires were after you?”

  “No. But I’m sure you do,” I challenged, waiting for her to explain why Ethan and his crew of hostile strangers were at my home. “Joan, is it?”

  She nodded.

  “Why am I here?”

  Her smile broadened as her gaze wandered. I suspected she was getting her story together or establishing a believable lie. “The vampires have taken a special interest in you.”

  “And?” It came off harsh and ruder than intended but I hated having to extract information question by question. Her thin lips curved into a demure smile, trying to defuse my growing exasperation. I continued, tone crisp, gaze jarring, “Ethan rushed in like they expected them to be there. As though they were just waiting for them to strike. What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Their attack was anticipated but the reason is unclear. We’ve been petitioned to keep you safe.” Her tone and inflection was cooler now, more professional.

  The tension that came off her made me uncomfortable. She was withholding but I wasn’t sure how much. Was my mother really downstairs?

  “I want to see my mother,” I admitted. If she were really here, then I could determine how much trust I was willing to put in Joan. If she took me downstairs, I could explore the retreat and plan my exit strategy.

  She nodded slowly and I followed her out the door down the long hallway. As we descended the stairs, the footsteps and sounds of movement seemed to come to a hurried stop. They scattered at my approach. Now those noises were nothing but phantom sounds from people I could never identify. I As I followed her to the left, we walked past the large great room decorated for function not design. Two solidly built sofas were at the opposite ends of the room separated by muted geometric-patterned accent chairs. A large dark leather ottoman was placed in the middle. If I were watching one of those design shows on HGTV, they would call the room something catchy like “modern chic meets functionality” as a bubbly designer fixated on the mundane details of the decor.

  What I saw was furniture that was so durable that it couldn’t be broken. It had two deep claret-colored sofas that could easily hide most stains, most likely blood. I smelled it in this room. Blood had been spilled many times throughout it. With a normal sense of smell, when blood is washed away, so is the scent; but for me, it was only dulled to the point that it could be ignored.

  I stayed close to Joan as she took me around the corner and we passed another room, which I assumed to be the living room. In most households, the room’s only purpose was to showcase elaborate decorative furniture, art, and collectibles. This room was slightly different. The sofas were a luxurious tan, more traditional, still durable. Instead of an ottoman in the center of the room, there was an ornate wool rug. Unique pictures of wildlife and nature covered the walls. The rust and cream paint were blended together in an intricate and charming faux finish. Yes, it was aesthetically pleasing, but it also hid the subtle markings and dents of a battered wall. I wondered who or what battered them. This may be the room they used to show a more refined side of themselves, but blood had been spilled in this room as well.

  I couldn’t help but wonder why the people who resided in or visited this house had so many accidents, lost so much blood, bled so often. My curiosity was a weighted vest, making it hard to continue following Joan. I wanted to make a mad dash for the nearest door and probably would have, but I had to see my mother.

  I trailed her down the lengthy hallway through plain white double doors into another hall. It looked like an addition to the house. After a left turn, I found myself in a hospital—rather a home version of one. The walls were white and sterile and the floors were the same high-gloss tile that you see in doctors’ offices, hospitals, and clinics.

  It’s not that I had a lot of experience in doctors’ offices or hospitals. My mother was a pathologist. When I needed a doctor, she was there. I rarely needed her in that capacity. As a child, I wasn’t plagued with the same childhood problems as others. Broken bones? Not a chance. If I fell from a tree, I would walk away unscathed. A skinned knee was healed before you could get the bandages out of the box. I never had a cold, flu, or even the chickenpox, yet I had somehow built up the antibodies. My mother did the blood work, things like that didn’t just happen without her poking me with a needle, and drawing blood to find out the why.

  Those things should have clued her in that something was very wrong with her daughter. Perhaps she knew and did an excellent job of hiding her my-daughter’s-a-freak look.

  Joan and I continued down the hall past three doors that were numbered. I assumed they were recovery rooms but, for all I knew, they could have been little prison cells. Each one was locked from the outside and two were padlocked. I decided then that as soon as I saw my mother, I was leaving. This beautifully decorated house was just camouflage for all the iniquities it hid.

  Finally, we made a right down another hallway. I paid close attention to every turn, every loop, despite the fact the house was a maze.

  When she opened another set of double doors, the room temperature dropped; chill bumps rose along my arm. The open room smelled of disinfectant, sulfur and medicine. There were seven beds, separated only by a dividing curtain. Perhaps there were nine; two of the curtains were closed. Near the desk, at the far end of the room, was an examining table. At the other end of the room, was a microscope with testing supplies. Multiple cabinets filled with medical supplies were placed throughout the room. And once again, I found myself wondering: Why the hell did they have a hospital in their house and why did they require so much medical attention?

  Joan pulled back the thin dividing curtains. My mother lay on the examining table. With pale skin and bluish lips, her face was peaceful, void of life and the jovial expressions that it always held. This was my mother, or rather her body. The lifeless shell of the woman who took me into her life, her home and raised me as her own after my mother died giving birth to me. She was the person who forced me to learn Portuguese in order to have some part of my birth mother with me, who did everything she could to give me a normal life, despite the circumstances that would deny me that.

  I closed my eyes, reluctant to open them again and accept the reality that my mother was dead. “Skylar,” said a deep sympathetic voice behind me. I turned slightly toward the tall, slender gentleman with silver hair and hints of dark gray. A congenial smile settled on his ruggedly handsome face. I didn’t respond. Everyone seemed to know who I was but didn’t bother introducing themselves.

  “Who are you?” I asked in an icy voice. I couldn’t believe how incredibly rude I sounded. When your mother is lying dead in front of you, being impolite was acceptable or, at the very least, understandable.

  “I’m Dr. Jeremy Baker. You are welcome to call me Jeremy.” H
e looked down at my mother, his empathy and concern apparent. I felt like a jerk for being so rude to him. “I wish there had been something I could have done for her but she was gone before she got to me. We couldn’t even consider changing her.” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Narrow aristocratic features may have made him look cold but I didn’t think he was. After a few moments, he gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He and Joan left the room, leaving me alone to grieve.

  And grieve I did. First, shock made it hard to cry. Instead, I stared at her, in a frozen state of disbelief. This wasn’t happening. No, this couldn’t be happening. Whether or not I chose to accept it, or live in a state of utter denial, it happened. There she was—or rather her body. All life was gone from her. The reassuring smile and gentle eyes that always made things seem less perilous and easier to handle were absent. The delicate lines of her face relaxed into an eternal sleep. Her skin was the palest I had ever seen and her lips were cracked and a silvery blue. Now she was nothing more than a lifeless body.

  She was dead soon after the attack. After I stopped the CPR, I tried to accept it; she was gone. Taking another look at her, I crumpled into the small space next to the bed. I cried until the urge to scream dwindled to a whimper. When I was done, my eyes were dry, tear ducts battered, and my throat parched from sobbing.

  When I walked out of the room, Joan stood by the door waiting for me. Her lips curled into a gentle, sympathetic smile. As she guided me back to the bedroom, I aimlessly followed her in a dissociated state, barely noticing the new rooms she took me through. This wasn’t a house; it was an estate or worse—a compound.

  I didn’t see them but I could feel all eyes on me. They were skulking in the shadows, eerily watching me as I moved through the house. I wondered if they were hiding from me, or if they didn’t want me to see them. I wouldn’t be able to name names or identify faces of the people I hadn’t met if needed. Periodically I would look over my shoulder, hoping to get a glance at a face or catch a glimpse of the people who were so obsessively watching me.

  As we walked up the stairs, the dark-haired girl who had accompanied Ethan into my home was descending them. Her gaze met mine briefly. She appeared hard and palpably unwelcoming, yet I couldn’t drop my eyes from hers. There was something hauntingly intriguing about her. I stared at her as she passed us. Feeling my attention, she craned her neck to look back at me, and her deep hazel human eyes changed to … snake eyes? Long vertical slits sharpened, making her pupils resemble that of a serpent. I stared at them, transfixed, unable to pull my gaze from hers.

  “Winter, is everything okay?” Joan inquired, turning to focus on the woman with the peculiar eyes.

  She ripped her gaze from mine to look at Joan, her eyes back to hazel but arctic cold. “Of course,” she responded in a low terse voice. She glided down the stairs with soft purposeful movements, giving me the impression that I only heard her moving because she desired it. Any other time, she probably moved in silence, undetected, a predator on a perpetual hunt.

  In the room, I sat on the bed trying to focus and gain perspective on what was going on. “What did Dr. Baker mean, that he couldn’t ‘change her’?”

  “As were-animals, we have the ability to change others to our form. If the process is successful during the conversion, most if not all injuries are repaired,” her eyes roved over my face assessing me. “A change to a lesser species isn’t as traumatic but the conversion doesn’t allow the best physical repair. As you can guess, change to a greater species is far more aggressive and the survival rate is low, especially if the person is physically compromised. We were left without options for your mother.”

  Were-animals? Was that what they were, humans forced to share their body, their life with an animal, like me? “You are all werewolves?” Then I remembered the animal that was at Ethan’s side when he barged into my home. It wasn’t a wolf. With everything going on around me, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me when I saw a person in the phase of midchange. By the time I focused on him again, he was a coyote. Well, I assumed the massive thing was a coyote. Its features resembled one, but it was larger than anything I had seen in the woods or zoo. It viciously ripped into the man—or rather vampire, killing one of the four people who entered my home.

  She nodded her head slowly, “More than just werewolves, were-animals.”

  “Why am I here?” I was hesitant to ask. The more questions I asked, the weirder things became: werewolves or rather were-animals, vampires and beautifully decorated compounds with built-in hospitals.

  “Because you need help,” she stated elusively.

  “What if I don’t want your help?”

  The muscles around her neck tightened marginally, but she maintained the same pleasant smile. “I hope you will accept it and stay here. Then we can guarantee your safety.” She was very cautious and deliberate with choosing her words. Despite the assertive undertone and my efforts to resist, when she spoke, it was soothing.

  I was silent for a long time, looking around the room. Now there were more of my things in it, set up for an extended stay. “Why do I have a feeling that your request is just a courtesy and I really don’t have a choice in leaving?”

  “We will not keep you here against your will. However, it will make it much easier to keep you safe here. The vampires are wise enough not to come here,” she continued maintaining a professional yet gentle tone.

  “If I chose, I can just take my things and leave, no question asked?” My eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her. I was having a hard time believing that.

  “We hope that you choose to stay,” a baritone voice added. I swallowed a gasp; my body tensed. Some people have the ability to command a room, others to control it; when someone does both, it is consuming. He was a presence that occupied the large room, shrinking it to a quarter of its size. I felt the urge to find a small space that he didn’t occupy and cower.

  His skin was tinted a flawless deep espresso-brown. His full lips, which should have overwhelmed his face, did nothing but enhance it, despite the fact they were dipped down into a frown. Prominently defined cheekbones and a strong jawline made the look of reproach he gave me even more severe. My gaze fixed on his oval light-brown eyes that were so cold and imposing that they trapped me where I stood. As he moved further into the room, the waves of muscles that clung to his broad build moved in unison with each step.

  “Skylar, this is Sebastian, the Alpha of the Midwest Pack,” Joan explained with her brow raised as a warning. She nodded, or rather bowed her head to him in a respectful greeting to acknowledge him.

  I forced contact with the male whose mere presence left me wishing I could be anywhere else. “Nice to meet you, Sebastian,” I lied. Crossing his arms over his chest, he nodded a greeting. His eyes roved over me inquisitively. The frown remained. Whatever he saw, it left him either disappointed or unimpressed.

  “I am extending an invitation for you to stay here for your own protection. You will not be safe in your home any longer,” he stated firmly. “It would be advisable that you accept.”

  “But if I choose to decline your help and leave, I’m free to do so, right?” I challenged. Joan implied that I could leave at any time, but my gut was telling me otherwise.

  His face tensed, making his appearance harsh and strident. I got the impression Sebastian wasn’t questioned or denied often. “No one will stop you, but I doubt you will be gone long before the vampires come for you again, and your fate with them will be far worse than being a guest here,” he responded in a crisp tone.

  I tried to meet his gaze but it was too intense, scary. “Who petitioned you to protect me?” I asked.

  The stern look remained as he spoke, “That’s irrelevant. They want you alive; that is all you need to know.”

  “And the vampires? Why do they want me?” I asked. Now that I knew there were other were-animals—enough to form a pack, this had nothing to do with me being a werewolf. Except for being a werewolf, there wasn’t
anything else exceptional about me.

  “At this time, we don’t have that information,” he admitted in a stiff voice.

  “Let me see if I understand. The vampires have an interest in me. You were petitioned to protect me by someone who seems to want anonymity, and you have no idea what the vampires want with me, but still you have chosen to help me?” I asked incredulously.

  It was obvious from the way the muscles of Sebastian’s neck and jaw twitched with tension that he didn’t like questions or being in the dark any more than I did. And pointing it out wasn’t winning any favor with him either.

  “Why would you choose not to stay?”

  I shrugged, “Let’s just say I have trust issues and don’t believe in altruism. I don’t understand why you want to help me.” That was a slight lie. I did believe in altruism but I surely didn’t believe he was capable of such an act.

  He nodded his head slowly, still assessing me with that penetratingly intense gaze. Sebastian didn’t just share his body with his animal; he had bonded with it and become one with it. The primordial nature of his animal was so tightly interwoven with the man before me that he was something different—a “manimal.”

  There was a protracted silence. His gazed hardened and his brown eyes flickered to deep amber and I was faced with very familiar animal eyes. Sebastian was a wolf—like me. Well, maybe not like me because the animal that stared back at me projected a level of danger that left me shaken. I doubt even on my best day I could ever be that terrifying in human form. “We saved your life Ms. Brooks. I think we have earned your trust.”