The Grace of a Savage
The Family Grace Book One
Collette Carmon
Copyright © 2020 by Collette Carmon
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Dave,
The hero of my unwritten love story.
So they worshiped the dragon who gave authority to the beast; and they worshiped the beast, saying, “Who is like the beast? Who is able to make war with him?”
Revelation 13:4
Contents
The First Wolf
1. Sterling
2. Tallulah
3. Lyric
4. Merle
5. Beau
6. Sterling
7. Tallulah
8. Lyric
9. Tallulah
10. Sterling
11. Jorie
12. Judson
13. Sterling
14. Lyric
15. Tallulah
16. Merle
17. Tanner
18. Sterling
19. Lyric
20. Jorie
21. Sterling
22. Adeline
23. Lyric
24. Sterling
25. Tanner
26. Merle
27. Sterling
28. Lyric
29. Tallulah
30. Jorie
31. Sterling
32. Colt
33. Remington
34. Tallulah
35. Birdie
36. Sterling
37. Lyric
38. Tallulah
39. Merle
40. Jorie
41. Sterling
42. Tallulah
43. Lyric
44. Sterling
45. Tallulah
46. Sterling
The First Beast
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Collette Carmon
The First Wolf
Once Upon a Time—
in a forest unremarkable, a man approached the narrow obsidian-lined entrance of a small, jagged cave. His gait was broken, hobbled by some larger men who’d grown rowdy and mean after they’d had their fill of drink at the shabby tavern in town. With a meek voice he called into the dark hole, “Oh great witch, please lend me strength.” When the witch didn’t respond the man stumbled home.
His next trip into the thicket came when he’d stood silent in the face of his brother’s constant berating. The spineless man had stood there as his brother tore him down in front of their parents and family friends; called him names and laughed when he trembled in place, silent. Enraged at his timidness the man stumbled to a stop in front of the dark cave’s entrance, “Oh great witch!” He called in desperation, “Please lend me a voice.” He wandered home, defeated, when it grew dark with no response.
A moon came and went. During that time the man had become happy due the appearance of a lady he grew to love. He’d followed the woman’s every instruction, catered to each whim, and had believed their love mutual. Until he stood, frozen in her doorway, as another man—far handsomer than this feeble love-lorn man—bent a knee and asked for her hand. Though he was miserable of heart, the man finally found his voice to ask her what of him. What of their love? The woman he loved with all his heart laughed—bell-like and beautiful—before she told him he was far too clumsy and plain to be her husband. So he ventured, once more, into the wood, and fell to his knees before the glittering trail of obsidian that led into the dark cave. “Oh great witch,” he whimpered as tears fell down his face. “I beg of you, make me graceful and attractive. I beg of you to change me.”
When the night had turned dark and the hours passed in silence he lost hope. Yet he stayed, in his same spot, thinking it would be best if a beast took him for its late night meal. Only it wasn’t the steps of a wild thing that fell softly on the damp ground; those were the footfalls of a radiant witch. She came, cloaked in black smoke with a crown of gleaming stones set atop her white hair. He sat there, mute in her presence as she stepped closer.
“You’ve sought me thrice, and have shown dedication in waiting for me til near dawn. At this hour of three what would you ask of me?” Her voice was gentle, like a breeze.
He scrambled to his feet, eager to speak.
“Can you make me a more desirable creature?” His voice was too high, too desperate, but his embarrassment was set aside when she smiled at him as if he were precious and wonderful.
“I can,” she whispered. “But it comes at a price.”
“I have gold,” he hastened to assure.
Her expression was pitying as she leaned forward and touched his cheek.
“Gold does not move me. I have all I could desire or require in this wood. What I will ask of you will live in your blood until the last of your kin has perished from this earth. I will change you to mirror what is in your soul. A creature as lovely as you are capable of being, but in exchange your lineage will belong to me. The lives of your children, your children's children, and so on until the end of time will your bloodline belong to me. Do you still wish for my help?”
He fell to his knees before her, and with desperate hands took hers into his, “Please, great witch, please. I will give you my eternity if you would grant me this.”
Again she looked saddened. An expression that lingered as she beckoned him to his feet, “Kiss me and so shall it be.”
At dawn, the man woke refreshed in his own bed. He thought, may-haps, he fell asleep and in a drunken stupor dreamed of the fair-haired witch as he slept.
Only, as he stood from his bed, the man noticed it seemed smaller. Suddenly, the roof of his room seemed closer, and as he exited his cottage the man noticed either everything had grown smaller or he had grown taller.
It wasn’t only his height that had changed, he noticed as he went to fetch some water from the well. His face was sharper, more rugged, drawing the delighted giggles of the young women near him. All of whom had previously ignored the man’s presence. Even after they traveled away from where he pulled water from the well, the man could clearly hear their whispering voices as they discussed the handsomeness of his face.
Along with his height and new face came the appearance of hard muscles that had previously been flabby bits of pale flesh over bone. The men he’d once cowered from in pubs moved out of his path. Similarly, his brother kept silent when in the man’s presence. When his bully of a brother had once said and done everything he could to ridicule the man.
It was the beginning of a happy, wondrous life.
So enrapt was he, with his new life, that the man forgot the pact he’d made with the witch in the woods.
For one year, the man lived as if he hadn’t known any witch. Until the night his son was born under the light of a full moon—when he looked upon the wretched vernix-covered beast between his wife’s thighs—the man finally questioned what he had done. Wet ,matted gray fur covered it’s small body. As it began to snuffle around his wife screamed. Kicking at pitiful beast, she demanded to know what sorcery had changed her child.
The man couldn’t say. His voice was suddenly gone as he gazed upon his sin.
When his wife grabbed the steel knife from her bedside table, the man didn’t have it in him to stop her from ending her damned child. However, before the knife could touch a single bit of fur, a fury of a storm blew in the door.
In the threshold she stood, in a cloak of black smoke with a crown of gleaming stones upon her white hair. A memory returned to the man wh
o had lived so long pretending the witch in the woods was a dream.
“That child is mine!” Her voice was a raging tempest, so different from the calm breeze he recalled from the wood. His wife was dead against the straw mattress—another blight on his soul that the man committed to memory while he watched the light leave her pretty eyes.
The witch had his son in her pale arms. Holding the beast as if it were the most precious treasure.
“Is this what you meant for him to become?” He finally asked. When his child’s cries—more animal than human—were silenced by the witch’s breast. She looked to be the inspiration for the portrait of motherhood. The witch’s long hair draped over her shoulder, and a contented smile on her lips as she stared down at the boy.
“His form reflects his soul; this is my first wolf.” She murmured.
“There are others like me?”
“More than I can count, and for longer than I can remember. All men come to me to change them, and they all offer their legacies to me.” She had that same sad smile on her mouth. The one she wore before he kissed her in the thicket of dark trees.
A pact the man had made without hesitation.
“No women?” He asked, as he cautiously moved closer.
“None; a mother’s heart is different. She knows, even before conception, that she could never give up her future children for something as trivial as pride.” She swept a loving hand over the fur that covered the small boy’s body. “Mother’s only give up their children when there is a better future waiting for them at the side of someone else.”
“What happens to me now?” He asked, ever selfish, and she gazed upon him with pity.
“You will go forth, and make me more creatures. Children that I will come to collect when they are born. Before their host-mother can blot out what they perceive as evil.”
“And these children, what of them?” He had no right to the answer, yet the witch gave him a response.
“They are to be raised to be loyal to the coven. Each will find a witch to bond, and will live their lives protecting the witch that chooses the creature as their own.” Her gaze was loving as she looked down at the sleeping wolf pup at her breast, “It is an honor to serve a witch.”
With that she was gone, and soon so was he. Off to breed more damned children for her coven.
In future years, when she came to collect his children, the witch would either come with a large gray wolf, or with a strapping lad that possessed vivid yellow eyes.
1
Sterling
“Remember, Sterling, he’s only going to ask you about the new album. He’s not supposed to question you about your rendezvous with Lena at The Studio’s End.” That’s what Jake Wayne, his current manager, publicist, and grudging friend, assures when they are alone in the backstage of Mornings with Ron. His large, dark hands grip Sterling on the shoulders. Warming Sterling through his faded plaid shirt, and Jake watches him with pleading brown eyes. “Please stick to the plan, Sterling. Please. This is live, we can’t edit a rant out.”
That was once, man, let it go.
“Fucking wonderful,” he mutters instead, itching for a cigarette or a drink. His anxiety is murder. Something Sterling’s newfound fame doesn’t help. In the last four months his band—The Devil’s Mirror—hit chart gold with their single Loup. A song Sterling penned during a weekend long ecstasy high, one that brought too many memories to the front of his mind. Making the song the easiest, yet rawest, he’s ever penned. A song he didn’t want to use but democracy overruled causing Sterling to be outvoted by Derek and Jake. Now, waiting to go onstage before a live audience, Sterling is regretting not playing dictator to shutdown the vote.
Sterling doesn’t miss living in his van—surviving on ramen and using truck stop bathrooms for a shower when he got too filthy.
He does miss anonymity.
Especially, in this era of the smartphone and constant invasion of privacy. Between Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, Instagram and all other social media Sterling is unable to fly below the radar. Something he envies of the bands who came before his—he’s a flash in the pan and still invaded like he’s Robert Fucking Plant.
I wish, man. More money might make this shit tolerable.
All too soon, the backstage crew is urging him to come to the area just off set. From here he can see Ron Hausman grinning up at the massive studio crowd. Ron used to be a cool dude who rated metal videos and slayed the axe with the heroes of Sterling’s youth. Now he’s a middle-aged has been that rocks a suit with a clean shave while pretending he cares about celebrities and gossip. Sterling’s ill at the thought that this could be his future.
“Please welcome Sterling Savage,” Ron says with an exaggerated gusto and grin. His long arm gestures to the side of the stage where Sterling stands rooted. Giving him a gentle shove, Jake hisses another reminder to stick to the plan.
Something that flees Sterling’s brain the moment he’s standing on the brightly lit set. All around him he’s dazzled by the lights and the cheers. How he manages to take a seat on the white leather couch without issue, Sterling will never know.
“Sterling,” Ron begins, teeth so white and perfect Sterling wonders how much those veneers cost him. Hard partying kills a good smile. Sterling doesn’t have the chance to put his foot in his mouth because Ron speaks before Sterling’s tongue can run away with him. Fortunate for Sterling’s suffering manager.
“Tell us. How has your world changed since the single Loup took over the planet?”
“Um,” he nervously shuffles his long feet. Swallowing when he realizes he wore his ratty Converse. His mama is bound to throw a fit when she calls him for her monthly check-in. “I mean,” Sterling gives an awkward sort of gesture. “It’s been a whole new life. I’m still trying to figure out how to adjust.”
“Do people recognize you,” Ron asks. Leaning his face into his big, aged hand—giving Sterling his undivided attention, as if he cares.
“Yeah, they do, which is both cool and a bummer.” Sterling admits, ignoring the abort mission signals Jake gives from backstage. He can see Jake from his periphery and Sterling has to bite down the desire to laugh. “It’s cool when I am prepared, not so cool when I’m in a bookstore and have to leave because people are knocking crap down trying to get to me.”
“I imagine it’s not so cool when people catch you in the bathroom either?” Ron jokes, the implication about Lena loud and clear to the gossip loving fools who live for this sort of shit.
“Probably not,” Sterling shrugs. Figuring nonchalance is the best course of action when it comes to that particular topic. The world likes to be in his bedroom business—a fact that is becoming tedious. Sterling’s never paid for companionship, but he’s starting to see the merit of paying a woman to keep her mouth shut.
“Would you like to tell the world what really happened in that restroom at The Studio’s End?” Ron is a shark, drawn to the bloody bouquet of weakness.
“I’m not about to start feeding into the gossip. I don’t want to say anything about someone else that could be twisted for nefarious purposes.” Ron isn’t the worst monster Sterling’s faced, but he still regards the older man with a narrowed gaze.
“Very well,” Ron easily accepts. Which seems too easy. “Tell me about Loup.” His eyes are sparkling. Ron’s passion for music shining through from his past, into this new phase of his dwindling career. “What inspired the song stations can’t get enough of?”
“Can’t say all of it because I’ve already got all kinds of mothers rallyin’ against me, and that’d cement it for them.” The audience erupts with laughs and cheers. Sterling gives a sheepish grin, “Yeah, um. Well, so you’ve listened to it, I’m guessin’?”
“I have,” Ron agrees, picking invisible lint off of the fine cloth covering his knee. “It’s been awhile since I’ve heard a voice that raw with emotion that still manages to be beautiful. The guitar was killer, too.”
A genuine smile blooms on Sterling’s mou
th. His first since he’s stepped into this building. “Thank you.” He clears his throat, “Right, so you know it’s sort of a romance song.”
“One that went wrong, I’d say,” Ron nods.
Sterling lets out a sigh, “You’ve no idea.”
He shouldn’t have been so trusting, he shouldn’t have believed Ron would let Lena go so easily if he didn’t have something else. Something worse. That worse comes right then, without warning, as a piercing blue gaze settles on him. Pinning Sterling where he sits in a stiff seat.
“Tell us about Abita Springs,” Ron’s voice holds a dangerous edge. Sterling frowns. His confusion must be clear because Ron gestures to the large screen behind them as he casually says, “You know, the place you mention in your song. The place where all those secrets are buried.”
Behind the couch, on the large screen is a Tweet. Twitter is the medium Sterling deals with on his own. His distaste for connecting the reason that form of social media is so neglected. Sterling’s refusal to ever check the damned thing is the most-likely reason for why Jake hadn’t known about this shocking Tweet before they started this live interview. There, larger than life, is a photo that brings memories rushing right back into Sterling. Ones that he tries to suppress with booze, hard substances, and other women.
The Grace of a Savage Page 1
