by K. R. Grace
The Loner
Daughters of Destiny Series
Book One
K.R. Grace
©2014 Liaison Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
COPYRIGHTS
The Loner: Daughters of Destiny, Book One
Written by K.R. Grace
Edited by Grace McCammon
All Rights Reserved © Liaison Publishing 2014
This is a work of fiction. Any characters, names, places, or incidents are used solely in a fictitious nature based on the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to or mention of persons, places, organizations, or other incidents are completely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means without permission from the Publisher. Piracy is not a victimless crime. No individual/group has resale rights, sharing rights, or any other kind of rights to sell or give away this book unless expressly authorized by Liaison Publishing and the author.
To my beautiful mother.
It is because of you that I am doing what
I love most: creating stories. Thank you for teaching me
that the only limits we have are those we place on ourselves.
Prologue
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Star
In order to understand my story, you need to know how it all began. So, sit down by the fire. Get comfortable, because this might take a while.
You see, there is this untold ancient Cherokee legend. They don’t talk about it because it brings on a lot of shame and regret. Back when the Creator made the world, He sent a fleet of angels to protect the humans. This legion of angels was called Guardians and took on the form of animals so humans wouldn’t be able to identify them. Something about people acting on their best behavior when authorities are around.
Anyway, the Guardians and the humans existed peacefully for a while and everything seemed to be great. The Creator gave twin sisters the respected task of leading the Guardians. They’re names were Destiny and Fate. Destiny was awesome. Pure of heart and loved by all. Fate on the other hand was jealous and vindictive. Especially where Destiny was concerned.
After the great fall in Heaven, Fate saw it as her chance to become the sole leader of the shifters. Her goal was to destroy her sister once and for all. So, she created an army of fallen Guardians who’d followed the other fallen angels. They called themselves Shadowmen. Evil, vile creatures that preyed on innocent souls.
Fate sent the serpent shifter to trick the gullible humans into eating from the one tree the Creator forbade. However, she hadn’t expected the Creator to react the way He had. All Guardians and Shadowmen were turned into humans who could take on animal forms.
Instead of being able to shift into any animal they wanted, each was assigned a spirit animal and given a specific task. Failure to perform the task or fulfill a purpose sentenced a shifter to an eternity on earth. Well, at least until the day of reckoning. A punishment worse than death because the human body is designed to pass on to the next life at some point.
To prevent another uprising, the Creator stripped away the shifters’ ability to communicate with Destiny. Instead, only one shifter known as the Supreme Alpha could speak to her on the others’ behalves. Originally, there were six Supremes, but one by one, Fate eliminated them, either by killing them or converting them over to her cause.
All except one who refused to bow to her and could not be killed.
A lone wolf.
He had an iron will and an unwavering loyalty to the Creator and Destiny.
Fate didn’t consider it defeat, however. Instead, she got crafty. If the Supreme never
passed on his title, then all communication between Destiny and the Guardians would end when he died. What was an army without its leader?
Fate devised a plan so evil, so horrible, all the lives involved were forever changed. Some for the better. Some for the worst. Three shifters’ minds were altered so that they each were in love with the same girl. Only, this type goes beyond what you see in the movies or read in the books. It’s a connection with another soul you are destined to love and when your mate dies, you die with them. Two hearts literally become one, and you are nothing without the other.
Three shifters, one girl. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, this is where I come in. Losing a loved one just sucks. Everything hurts. Nothing seems fair. And for a brief moment in time, death sounds like a good idea.
At least that’s how it was for me.
Until a strange, wonderful guy came into my life and changed everything.
But even though I finally found my reason for living, for getting through the grief that weighed me down, I’ll never forget the boy I lost. He was my first in every way except for the whole marriage and a baby carriage.
God, after all this time, just thinking about the night I got the news makes my heart hurt.
The rain was terrible. I mean it was like someone was trying to pressure wash the world clean of all that was dirty and evil. He and I were fighting, as usual. He was upset with me about something I’d done without consulting him.
He could be controlling like that, which was a sore spot for Mom.
I told him I never wanted to speak to him again, and I didn’t want him to ever think of me as his girlfriend.
It was our routine fight that usually ended with us making up, professing our undying love for each other, and then doing it all over again. He stormed out like he always did, and I went into my room and cried into my pillow like I always did.
Three hours later, my phone rang.
I answered immediately thinking he was calling to make up, which he always did, but the female voice on the other end wasn’t him. It would never be him on the other end again.
Clint was dead.
At first I didn’t respond. I sat on the edge of my bed, my cell phone at my ear, listening to Clint’s mother but not really hearing her. Words like “standing water,” “hydroplaned,” “telephone pole” and “died on impact” swam around in my head but weren’t making any sense. I thought he was playing the joke of all jokes on me just to make me feel bad for what I’d said in the heat of our argument. Shock shifted to anger.
I said “goodbye” to his mother without asking any questions and called his phone to give him a piece of my mind.
But the call went straight to voicemail.
My parents tried to come into my room to check on me, but I wouldn’t let anyone in. I didn’t want to believe what they had to say. It was all a joke. Clint was going to call me and give up the charade. I kept dialing, listening to his automatic voice message, wishing he’d created a personal one like I always pestered him about doing, just so I could hear his voice and gain some false sense of reassurance that he wasn’t dead.
He never called.
I was still in denial when my parents forced me to attend his funeral. The casket was open and he looked like he did when he would fall asleep on the couch while we were studying. I wanted to shake him, and wake him up so he’d stop the game and climb out of the coffin. When I walked up to him to say my last goodbye, I leaned over and pressed my lips to his cheek in hopes it would wake him up like in the movies.
I recoiled at the feel of his icy flesh.
Then the tears came. I was hysterical as I watched the pallbearers carry him out in his eternal cage and was inconsolable as they lowered his casket into the ground. I wanted to jump into the grave with him and have the undertakers burry me alive. I probably would’ve acted had it not been for my dad clutching me to his chest. I couldn’t even make eye contact with Clint’s mother. I was too afraid of what I might find there.
Anger. Disdain. Abhorrence b
ecause I was the reason her only son, her only child, was no longer alive.
My parents allowed me to miss a week of school in hopes I’d let out all my tears and start living my life again. A week passed and I still felt the gaping hole Clint left in my heart. We should’ve been soul mates, but he was dead.
I went back to school and was forced to endure the stares from other students. We’d been voted cutest couple in our grade. Everyone thought we were going to get married one day. I’d thought so, too. I guess I took love for granted.
I hated the whispers behind the hands, the sympathetic faces, and the ogling eyes. I just wanted everyone to leave me alone. My teachers were so understanding. Too understanding. My friends tried to be supportive, but none of them understood what I was going through. I felt cold, lifeless.
Months went by and my parents realized I wasn’t getting better. They yanked me out of school and moved us out of our house in Atlanta to a small town I’d never heard of in Tennessee: Seymour.
My whole world changed in that tiny, godforsaken town. I met him there. How twisted is that? The greatest tragedy of my life led me to the best thing to ever happen to me.
So, how does this relate to the Supreme Alpha and the others? Well, here’s how it happened.
Chapter One
~*~*~*~*~*~
Star
Seymour has three stoplights, a post office, a grocery store, a few debilitated restaurants, an industrial strip, one auto shop, a volunteer fire station, a small handful of fast food restaurants, and an even smaller number of gas stations.
That’s it.
No movie theaters.
No malls.
Nothing.
I stared out the rain-speckled window as the tiny town flashed before my eyes, resigning myself to my prison sentence. What the heck did people do for fun around here? Go cow tipping and attend community dances?
Mom pulled into the parking lot of Seymour High School. She had a look of determination on her face that said I could protest all I wanted, but this was happening whether I liked it or not. God, I hated that face.
I begged her the night before to just let me be homeschooled. I mean, who transfers to a new school the last semester of their senior year? She didn’t buy it.
“Why didn’t you wear that pretty red shirt and blue jeans I set out?” Mom asked for the third time.
“Didn’t feel like it,” I mumbled.
“Honestly, Star. We understood when you decided to wear all black for a while but dying your beautiful auburn hair black just crosses the line. You look like one of those pot-head Goth kids.”
I didn’t call her out on her inaccurate stereotyping of all people who wore black. It wasn’t worth the use of my vocal cords. She was always trying to get me to let go of my perpetual state of mourning. If no one else was going to grieve Clint’s death, I would. I liked the pain, the void, the emptiness that could never be filled. It was my reminder and my punishment.
As we walked into the front entrance, I was greeted by a large yellow banner advertising cheerleading tryouts for the upcoming year.
“You should consider trying out. You know you were always good with gymnastics,” Mom said as we passed it. Obviously she’d forgotten about my one and only competition. I took out the judges’ table in my attempt to do a simple tumble. The incident landed me the nickname “Wrecking Ball.”
I scoffed: my only source communication since…you know when. Even if I had the gracefulness of a gazelle and the flexibility of Gumpy, there was no way I was going to be the queen of pep. I just wanted to blend in so no one would notice me. It was the only way I was going to survive the next year and a half of high school without Clint.
We walked into the main office. A short lady with layered brown hair stood up and gave me the biggest smile I’d ever seen. It could’ve probably given Miss America a run for her money. It was overpowering and unnerving. I resorted to staring down at my black converse shoes to avoid her unending sunshine.
“Well, who do we have here?” the woman asked with a sugary East Tennessee accent.
“I am Victoria Allistar and this is my daughter Elizabeth Allistar.” Mom made the introductions.
“Do you go by Liz or Elizabeth?” the lady asked.
“I prefer Star,” I muttered, not making eye contact.
“Star? Well, what an interesting name. I’m Mrs. Porter. Do you have your school records or did you have them sent from your previous school?” She was too bubbly for me. I mean, just looking at her was giving me a toothache.
“We had them transferred. My husband Tom got a new job in Knoxville, and we uprooted the family from Atlanta.” Mom giggled nervously. She was a terrible liar. Dad didn’t have a job yet. The move was because of me. Why they chose Seymour of all places was beyond me. It wasn’t like we had friends or family in the area.
“Well, let me give you some papers to fill out, Mrs. Allistar. While you’re doing that, I’ll just take our Star here to the guidance counselor so she can draw up a schedule.” Apparently Mrs. Porter found that funny because she giggled while she escorted me out. Seriously? Where did this woman come from? She was like a side character out of a Disney film.
I followed her endowed backside through a workroom and into a small room that had pamphlets in little holders mounted on the wall for how to overcome eating disorders and deal with teen pregnancy. It was odd; no one cared about how to get over losing someone.
The guidance counselor was okay. Not really the type of person I cared about being interested in on any level. Judging by all the trophies on the shelves lining the walls of his tiny office, he had to be the football coach. He definitely resembled a football coach: short and squatty with vague traces of his muscular-glory days in his otherwise flabby arms and fluffy chest.
“This is Star. She’s moved here all the way from Atlanta.” Mrs. Porter acted like we’d made the trek across America in beach chairs with helium balloons strapped to them.
He opened his mouth and said something, but all his worlds mumbled together, reminding of the teacher from Peanuts. I sat down in the chair he pointed to while he ran his beefy fingers over his keyboard.
If I squinted and turned my head slightly to the left, he sort of looked like Jigs, Clint’s English bulldog.
Mr. Jigs-look-alike said a bunch of words I didn’t understand, but judging by the paper he thrust in my hand, he’d decided I needed to challenge myself and placed me in chemistry II, calculus, Spanish II, and band.
“Sir, I can’t play any kind of instrument. You can’t put me in band.”
“Grumble, mumble, wah, wah, grumble,” was all that registered in my brain. If his lack of movement was any indicator, he wasn’t going to change my schedule.
Just great.
I was staring at my schedule when he mumbled a few more words. Jerking my head up, I saw him pointing at the door.
Either he was releasing me or motioning for someone else to come in. A quick glance over my shoulder at the empty doorway told me it was time to go. So, without saying anything, I stood with my schedule in hand and let myself out.
God, these people are weird.
“Classes are already out for the day. Why don’t y’all walk around, take a tour, find Star’s classes, check out her locker.” Mrs. Porter suggested as I joined her and Mom in the office.
I could care less about taking a tour of the school, but Mom tugged on my arm with a subtle pinch like she did when I was a kid, and we went in search of each class. The school was sort of shaped like an E with a tumor jutting out that was the gym and agriculture department. It was easy to find all my classes.
“We should go to the band room and see if the director’s there. Surely there’s an instrument you can play,” Mom muttered as we headed down the hall. Unless using my recorder as a spitball launcher in my third grade music class counted as playing an instrument, I was musically disabled. So, this should be interesting.
Unfortunately, he was there, bent over a filing cab
inet. He was a short man, leading me to the conclusion that people were just made shorter in Tennessee. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short and his cinnamon brown eyes were hidden behind wire-framed glasses.
“Hello, sir,” Mom called to him.
He straightened with a lopsided smile on his face.
“Hi. What can I do for you?” He closed the drawer he’d been digging through before moving to join us.
“I’m Victoria. This is my daughter Eliz-uh, Star. We just moved here from Atlanta.”
His eyes brightened and his smile kicked up a notch as he directed his gaze at me. “Is that right? What instrument do you play?”
“Um, I don’t play,” I muttered, not liking his enthusiasm.
“Oh, well, then what can I do for you?”
“The guidance counselor signed her up for the class.”
“Of course he did,” the director muttered. “Well,” he said as he pasted a fake smile on his face, “I guess that means you’re in band. I’m Mr. Thomas.”
“Star McCallistar,” I garbled as I shook his extended hand.
“Why don’t we just put you in the percussion section for now? You can start with the triangle and work your way up from there.”
“Whatever.” Did I really have an option?
God, I was so miserable. Mom and Mr. Thomas chatted like old friends for thirty minutes about who knows what before she finally made her excuses to leave.
Once we were back in the car, I slouched down in the passenger seat, prepared to sulk the entire way home. To say I was unhappy would be an understatement. This whole move was supposedly for my benefit, and yet I felt worse than when we were in Atlanta. Mom was oblivious to my emotions. This was all about her and Dad.
Case in point, she blathered on and on about how wonderful the school looked and how nice the band director seemed as she drove us home. I pulled out the headphones to my iPod and put them in to listen to the next song on my playlist. It was a sad song. They were all sad. I’d intentionally removed anything joyful from my life.
