Storm Gods

by G. Bailey

  Her Guardians Series

  Her Fate Series

  Protected By Dragons Series

  Lost Time Academy Series

  The Demon Academy Series

  Dark Angel Academy Series

  Shadowborn Academy Series

  Dark Fae Paranormal Prison Series

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  Holly Oak Academy Series

  The Alpha Brothers Series

  A Demon’s Fall Series

  The Familiar Empire Series

  From The Stars Series

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  The Secret Gods Prison Series

  Supernatural Shifter Academy Series

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  Chapter 21

  Chapter One of Crescent Wolves Bonus Read

  Sometimes when I look into the light of the sun, I can only see the shadows around the edges, waiting for their chance to smother what brightness is holding them back.

  But looking up at the sky, as I make my way down the sloping drive, I can only see big black thunderstorms forming on the horizon. I’m only just past the top of the hill on Bowery Street, and considering how quickly the weather is going sour, the odds of getting home before it starts to rain are slim to none.

  “Damn,” I mutter, pulling my backpack up higher on my shoulders and shaking my head. It’s times like these when I really wish Central High’s bus route included my neighbourhood. Well, our neighbourhood. Their neighbourhood. Whoever’s neighbourhood it is, it’s too far outside the city centre for the school bus to reach, and since I don’t have a car, I’m what some might call shit out of luck. Normally I don’t mind the long walk home. In fact, I usually enjoy it. It’s a chance to listen to some music, stretch my legs after eight hours of sitting at a desk, and, most importantly, it means less time spent around Mark. When the weather’s bad, though…

  Kicking myself for not thinking to bring an umbrella, I continue down the road, hoping I’ll get lucky and not end up soaked by the time I reach the house. Doubtful. All I can reasonably do at this point is try not to get water all over the front entryway and pray that Mark won’t be in one of his moods when I get in. I can practically hear him snapping at me already, slurring his words as he gestures at me with an empty beer bottle: Damn it, Millie! You couldn’t even dry off before getting mud all over the front porch? What’s wrong with you, huh?

  I shake my head, feeling the first raindrop plop down on my shoulder like a warning. Yeah, I know, I think. It feels like I’m on my way to the gallows.

  Okay, maybe that’s a little overly-dramatic. But not by much. I’ve been living with my most recent foster parents, Mark and Tonya Stone, for going on a year now, and things haven’t been peachy. It’s not like I’m not used to bad foster family situations. In fact, that’s basically all I’ve ever known, with a few exceptions. It’s like the start of every fantasy story I’ve ever read: a baby girl, abandoned at the hospital when she was born by parents she never knew, drifting from one abominable living situation to another and wondering why she was put on this planet. Except if this was really a fantasy story, a fairy godmother would have appeared at my bedroom window a long time ago to whisk me away on some whimsical adventure.

  Instead, the only things that have ever appeared at my bedroom window are the eggs thrown by neighbourhood pranksters and the occasional crow.

  It hasn’t been all bad, though, I think as the ground levels out beneath my feet. The raindrops are coming more frequently now, and I see the horizon light up briefly with the flash of lightning. Mollie, the foster mother I lived with from when I was nine to when I was eleven, was easily my favourite of the bunch. Mollie, I remember her saying when she first introduced herself. It’s only one letter away from your name, Millie. It’s like it was meant to be.

  And for a while, I almost believed it. With Mollie, I actually felt like I had a home, not just a place to stay. She showed me how to cook, let me watch her TV programs with her, and actually seemed interested in me as a person, not just a source of government-provided income. She even gave me a necklace, a little sterling silver pendant in the shape of a crescent moon, that I had worn until the clasp broke. Now I keep it tucked into the worn combat boots that I wear every day, no matter the weather. If I can’t hold onto it, then at least I can keep it, like a good luck charm, or something.

  But, as I’ve been forced to learn again and again as I’m passed from one set of strangers to another, nothing good is meant to last. The economy took a hit, Mollie had to close down her bakery, and it was determined that she was no longer fit to support me. So off I was packed, to a new family, a new set of introductions, and a new set of disappointments. Rinse and repeat.

  With every good thing in my life, shadows seep into the edges and make it impossible to stay good for long.

  As I turn off the main road and into Mark and Tonya’s neighbourhood, I remind myself to stop ruminating. What has that ever gotten me, other than resentment? Feeling the reassuring pressure of Mollie’s necklace against my ankle, I speed up a little, motivated to at least minimise my time outside in the rapidly-increasing downpour. Once I get home, I’ll have to finish my trigonometry homework, as well as work on the English paper that’s due this coming Monday.

  It’s as I’m contemplating my schoolwork that I’m hit with an increasingly familiar new wave of anxiety. I turned eighteen last month, which means that not only am I in my last year of high school, but my days in the foster care system are numbered. One would think I would be happy to be finishing the endless cycle of lousy living situations, and I am, but I’m not blind to what this next transition will mean: I’ll be on my own, for better or worse. And given my luck so far, my money’s on worse. I’m going to have to decide what to do about university, about getting a job, finding a place to live… the training wheels are coming off, and I’m in no way prepared for it.

  I guess that’s something every foster kid has to face, I reason, feeling the raindrops now pelting down on me. I lift my backpack and hold it above my head like a shield, aware that my papers are going to get wet but hardly caring at this point. But not every foster kid has had as hard of a go of it as I have. I know I’m just feeling sorry for myself, but it’s almost impossible not to. The truth is that I’ve never really felt at home anywhere, with the exception of those two wonderful years with Mollie. No matter where I go or who I live with, I’ve never really felt a sense of belonging. I’ve made friends here and there, but by the time I’m ever really starting to find a niche in one place, it’s been time to pick up and move somewhere else. It’s like my life has never really begun, leaving me with a lingering sense of emptiness and dissatisfaction everywhere I go.

  By now, my chestnut hair is beginning to dampen, and I pick up my pace, practically jogging now in a desperate attempt to stay dry. That’s enough chewing the cud, I tell myself. Just take things day at a time. That’s all you can manage. By the time I reach Mark and Tonya’s old, single-story house, I’m thoroughly soaked and shivering. Like a lost kitten… or something. It takes me a minute to fumble my house key out of my dripping backpack, but eventually I get the front door open, pausing on the threshold like one wrong move will set off an explosion.

  And for all I know, it will.

  “Tonya, honey, is that you?” I can hear Mark’s voice coming from the kitchen. Good. If I’m lucky, I can get down to my basement room and change my clothes before he’s any the wiser.

  “It’s me, Mark,” I call back, hoping my tone comes across as jovial and unbothered.
>
  “Hmph,” he says, and then goes quiet. Judging from the sound of his voice, he’s been hitting the bottle for at least an hour already. Ever since losing his job at the factory on the other side of town, he’s been taking full advantage of the unemployment checks and letting Tonya put food on the table by herself. Tonya, a mousy woman who probably won’t ever have the gumption to divorce her deadbeat husband, pulls odd hours at the diner down the street to support his drinking habit. Funny how they should take me away from someone like Mollie and then stay silent when I end up in a legitimately dysfunctional living situation. But what do I know, right?

  I manage to slip out of the entryway and down the basement stairs, doing my best not to drip water on the grimy linoleum floor. The basement is half-finished, with a pull-out couch serving as a bed and my meager possessions all crammed into the closet by the back wall. It’s more or less a glorified storage area, but at least nobody comes down here to bother me. Down here, I can re-read my worn copies of Narnia, the Harry Potter series, and yes, even Twilight, in peace, daydreaming about being swept away into a life full of purpose and magic, where tragedy and boredom were always just the precursors to a grand new adventure.

  The grimy mirror on the back of door makes me pause, looking at my blonde wet hair falling around my shoulders, dripping rainwater onto my drenched clothes. My very dark blue eyes stare back at me, daunting me with how much they look like the very water that smothers my clothes. Not for the first time, I wonder what my parents looked like. Do I look like my mother or father? Or neither of them.

  But the mirror doesn’t have answers for me. Of course it doesn’t. No one does.

  I’m just pulling on a dry sweater when Mark’s gravelly voice shatters the silence into a million pieces. “Millie, what the hell?!”

  My eyes go wide. “Yeah, Mark? What’s wrong?”

  “Get up here,” he yells, and even from down here I can hear the alcohol in his voice. Swallowing hard and bracing myself for the worst, I pad back up the basement stairs to find Mark standing in the entryway. His hulking figure makes me feel even smaller than I normally do, and with his shoulders hunched, his beer gut sagging over the top of his trousers, he looks more like a troll than ever before. “What the fuck is this?” he demands, pointing down at the floor by the welcome mat.

  “What…?” I begin, taking a step closer, and then I see it. A set of streaky, damp boot prints leading to the basement door. Shit. Why the hell didn’t I take my shoes off?! “Oh,” I say, blanching as I turn to look at him again. “I, uh… I’m sorry. It’s pouring outside.”

  “Yeah?” Mark rounds on me, his bloodshot eyes flashing. “Is that right? And why the hell didn’t you think about that before you went and got mud all over the floor?”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, inching back as he takes a step toward me. “I’ll clean it up. I didn’t even think about it-”

  “Of course you didn’t, because you don’t think, period,” Mark says, swaying slightly on his feet, and I can smell the stench of booze coming off him. Not beer this time, either. Something heavier. Whiskey, maybe. And there’s something in his voice that floods me with unease. Have I ever seen him this drunk before? “Sometimes I wonder why the hell we’re even keeping you,” Mark continues, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I mean, you’re useless, do you know that? We spend all this time and money providing for you, and what do we get?” He advances on me, making my heart jump to my ears. The unease is turning into full-blown fear. “Nothing,” he finishes. “That’s what.”

  “Mark,” I say, my voice coming out embarrassingly small, “please… I’m sorry. Really. I’ll-”

  “Did I say you could talk?” he roars, and then he does something I’ve never seen him do before, no matter how drunk he’s been. He takes a swing at me. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, and I’m able to duck out of the way. His fist connects with the wall, and he roars in pain. “You little…” he begins, winding up to throw another punch. Where’s Tonya? She won’t be back until dinner time, at the earliest. It occurs to me that he could do whatever he wanted to me right now, and no one would be the wiser.

  He’s going to hurt me, I think, heart thundering as I continue to back up. He’s actually going to hurt me.

  In that instant, with that realisation, I feel something strange welling up in the pit of my stomach, something cool and insistent, a feeling I’ve never experienced before. For a moment it’s enough to draw my attention away from Mark, away from school, away from everything, the novelty of it making me wonder if this is how newborn babies feel. I can feel something in me waking up, something I couldn’t put my finger on even if I tried. And one thing becomes clear to me, a truth I think I’ve known for a long time but was unable, or unwilling, to face until now.

  I need to get out of here.

  Chapter Two

  I don’t have time to think before Mark is winding up to hit me again, I turn on my heel and make a break for the basement door like my life depended on it. I almost slip on the rainwater staining the floor, and I feel the air behind me move as another one of my foster father’s uncoordinated swings narrowly misses me. My heart beats so loud it’s all I can think of, all I can worry about. Scrambling to keep my balance, I throw the door open and bolt through, barely remembering to lock it behind me before Mark arrives, his slurred yelling muffled as he pounds on the door.

  Racing down the stairs, I begin to frantically gather up my things. There isn’t much to collect - a half a dozen articles of clothing, a couple of books, my cell phone, and before I know what I’m doing I’m dumping out the contents of my school backpack, papers and pencils showering onto the carpet. I cram the backpack full of my stuff and look around. My mind is already made up; I’m not staying here a minute longer. It doesn’t matter where I go, as long as it’s away from here. Because if Mark can cross that line once, then he sure as hell can do it again, and I might not be so quick next time.

  Being hurt at this place isn’t worth the roof over my head.

  Shouldering my backpack, I turn to the other set of stairs, the ones leading out to the garage, and head for the door. I feel a pang of regret that I won’t get to say goodbye to Tonya - she was always nice to me, but there’s no looking back now. After taking one last look around the basement to make sure I’m not forgetting anything, I shove the door open and leave the house through the garage. I am half-expecting Mark to be waiting for me, but he seems to have given up and stumbled back to his booze. Thank god for small favours, I think.

  It’s not until I’m outside again that I realise it’s still pouring down. At least I didn’t forget my umbrella this time; the last thing I need right now is all of my clothes getting soaked from the rain. Not sure where I’m heading, I pick a direction and make my way down the street, feeling cold again as the downpour continues. I start to calm down as I walk, my heart rate slowly returning to normal, and it occurs to me that I don’t have a plan, or anywhere to go. The child services offices won’t be open until tomorrow morning, and they might not even care that I ran away. I’m eighteen now; it’s not like I’m their responsibility anymore. I take stock of my few school friends, who are really more like acquaintances, and it’s immediately clear that my options are limited as far as places to stay.

  At the very least, you can find somewhere to wait until this storm passes, I tell myself, and keep moving. The clouds still seem thick overhead, and that doesn’t seem like it’s going to be any time soon. Still, all I need right now is a place to rest and figure out what to do next. As I walk, I think back to that feeling I had when Mark took a swing at me. There was the fear, yes, and the realisation that I needed to leave, but there was also something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on. Have I ever felt something like that before? It was almost like there was something inside me, trying to get out. Maybe it was just the adrenaline, I reason. But I’ve felt adrenaline before, and this wasn’t it. I can’t fight the feeling that it has something to do with the growing se
nse of unease and foreignness I’ve been feeling increasingly lately. It hasn’t just been the new foster family, or the fact that I’m an adult now. There’s something more to it, but I can’t figure out what.

  I lose myself in thought for a while, the events of the past hour feeling more and more absurd as I walk. The rain continues, and before I know it, I’ve left Mark and Tonya’s neighbourhood and am entering an industrial area of the city. It only takes one look around to tell me this isn’t the place for a girl, especially a girl alone. I can feel the passerby giving me strange looks as I continue down the street, wondering all the while if I should turn around.

  Yeah, I ask myself bitterly, and go where? It’s not like I can return to the house, and at this point I have no idea where I am. I could end up wandering in circles for the rest of the night. I can see that the sun is dipping low on the horizon. Soon it will be nighttime, and the last thing I want to be doing when the sun sets is walking around this part of the city. Eyeing the buildings as I go, feeling increasingly self-conscious under the scrutiny of the strangers around me, eventually a dilapidated warehouse around the corner from a run-down apartment complex catches my eye. On the door is a sign reading, “CAUTION - CONDEMNED” but the padlock keeping it shut has been broken. I’m probably not the first squatter to turn up here. All I can do is hope it’s empty as I try the door. It groans open stiffly and a furry of rust flakes showers down on me.