STATE OF INDEPENDENCE
Sherry L. Brown
Copyright © 2019 Sherry L. Brown
All rights reserved.
Cover art: Sherry Brown
ISBN: 9781697876567
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Girl, this book is for you. You’ve dreamed, you’ve slaved, you’ve put your sweat and tears into all that you do. You’ve fought to be original, break out of expectations, norms, and everything boxed. And you have come so far. You are an amazing bit of everything: fire and heart, stardust and ice, everything magic and wonderful. You are LIFE. And you are more than enough. Keep dreaming. Keep creating.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Note from the Author
This book has a soundtrack/playlist. These are songs I listened to while I wrote and will lend a ‘mood’ if you wish to listen while you read.
You can listen to it here: https://spoti.fi/2Ir9ZeZ
Preface
A word from yours truly.
Justice, my sister, has expressed great concern that we get our accounts of the metaphysical events that have shaped our world down on paper. For historical purposes she says.
Everyone views history differently, of course, it is slanted by the personal perspective of the seer. So here is my account of the history of us three sisters and the defeat of one evil queen.
I will tell you, I never pretended to understand our older sister, Glory. She is an enigmatic soul, far removed from my own sphere of existence, that is, until I moved in with her, her husband, Grayson, and his son, Marc. I can’t say that those times were overly great for me, but they were a time of change and growth. In fact, up until that point, my life had been mostly a shit storm of drama, all because of how I was born into this world (more on that later.) And at the tender age of seventeen when I moved in with Glory and her make-believe family, I can’t pretend I even had a minor understanding of why things were they way they were.
And now, years later, the only way I came by the facts (or what I believe to be the facts) has been by piecing them together in a happenstance fashion akin to piecing together Frankenstein - sure, you get the whole picture, but it is hideous and ugly, unbelievable to your own eyes, yet you know it to be truth.
Make of this what you will...
Chapter 1
The pain in my shoulder is more than I can really bear. Fire radiating in waves from the center, making me dizzy and nauseated and unable to do much more then grit my teeth and breathe in short convulsing breaths, anticipating the pain that comes with each wave.
I try not to breathe or move at all. Any movement causes the pain of a hot poker in my back shoulder blade. It is unbelievably mind numbing. I try concentrating on taking shallow breaths – but feel like I am not getting enough oxygen – and panic is setting in.
I must black out. Time moves. Disoriented, I look around to see a large bathroom that is in chaos. A plastic bin has been placed near my feet, and since my head is angled down, it is the first thing that registers. Towels haphazardly hang out of it, as if they were thrown at the bin in haste. I am shivering even though my back feels inflamed with heat. My left shoulder is digging into…plywood. I see its wood pattern as I glance down and I see my right hand there too. It seems disassociated from my body, and it takes me a few slow seconds to recognize it as my own.
Gingerly drawing my head back to take in what I can, I have to pause for what feels like hours while the pain simmers back down to something manageable.
Directly across from where I lay is a dual sink countertop with white cabinets beneath it. I can make out the mirror and the lights above it. A bathroom then. I can hear voices, whispers really, from somewhere above my head. I breathe shallowly and try to concentrate on them, but I am not able to concentrate beyond the pain and frustration swirling in my stomach.
I must make some infinitesimal sound, alerting someone to my consciousness, because footsteps sound on the tile. A pair of legs enters my plane of vision, clothed in dark slacks. Those legs bend, and a handsome face replaces them in my field of vision. The handsome face of my brother-in-law swims blearily in front of me. His brow is furrowed in concern and his hand stretches out to claim mine. It is warm. But comforting.
“Indy. Listen to me. You have to shift.”
His eyes are iridescently blue. I know he is trying to tell me something important but I just can’t seem to hold on to any of my thoughts, they are too nebulous. Flitting at the back of my mind, but I can’t grasp one.
I feel some strange energy tingling up my hand into my arm. I don’t want to shift, I want to die.
This energy Grayson pushes into my body gives me clarity. I have found a thought. And I can see him. His brown hair is sticking out in odd angles, his dark eyebrows angular slashes above his eyes, his straight nose with it’s one bump, and this close up I can make out the individual hairs that make up the stubble on his angular jaw. Lucky bastard. He’d been hit with the pretty stick. This is only the second time I have met him. The first was when I was five at the funeral for my mother. My gaze had been glued to him then. He was an imposing figure in his dark suit. The only superhero I’d met in my short life. I probably shouldn’t have such an ingrained memory of him from twelve years ago. But he made an impression. And he hasn’t changed at all. I still feel a flutter of hero worship in my heart.
“Grayson.” I feel my lips curve in a smile. I feel triumphant for being able to speak.
“Grayson,” I start again. “Let me go. I’m ready.” I feel euphoric. This is right.
A questioning look crosses his face, then is quickly replaced with anger.
“No.” He yells and squeezes my hand, another stab of energy reverberating up my arm. This one feels like I have shaken hands with one of those jokers that puts an electric buzzer in the palm of their hand. It travels up to my elbow and over my shoulder reverberating as it goes. But it is still enough of a jolt that fresh pain from my shoulder blade has me breathing through my nose.
Ah. Poor hero. He doesn’t understand. They never do.
Another set of footsteps on the tile. These are sharper – high heels. Grayson has not let go of my hand. A pair of legs appears behind Grayson’s head. These are very clearly feminine and encased in a silk dress - fancy. My sister’s face appears next to her husband’s. We don’t resemble each other at all - products of two different fathers. Where she is dark haired and regal with warm honey eyes, I am short, with golden blond locks and green eyes.
Every muscle in my body tenses, some to the point of shake. I can feel the change coming upon me, but I am in so much pain I am beyond focus. I have shut my eyes against it, but bursts of light fly behind my eyelids. In addition to the fire like pain radiating out from my right shoulder to encompass my whole body, I am feeling sick to my stomach. Grayson must see and understood my facial expression, because before I can say anything I am staring at the pitiful little bit of yellow bile my stomach splatters on the white tile floor, while he holds my hair back.
The nausea passes, and I gratefully lay back on the makeshift operating table. I am able to take a somewhat deep breath and slow understanding dawns that Grayson has stopped pushing his energy into me to force me to shift. The respite is pure relief. I close my eyes.
I must pass out then for when I open my eyes the first thing I see is an upside down forest and the sight forces me to squeeze my eyes shut as another wave of nausea overtakes me. I focus on other sensations to take my mind off the pain and dizziness.
I am chilled; a strong arm
at my back and below the crook of my knees. My head bobbing like a cork as whoever holds me walks along. The usual quietness that accompanies a forest at night and a werewolf walking through the woods are all that can be heard. His breath is easy, I am no burden for a him. My shoulder and arm are numb, and when I take an accounting of the rest of my body, I can neither feel my right leg nor my right side, numbness has taken the place of the pain, and I am terribly tired. I know I would not be able to walk had the man carrying me set me down. And he does just that; placing me softly on my left side. I can smell the clean scent of pine needles and when I crack my eyes open can see the darkened canopy of treetops silhouetted against a lighter night sky. Maybe closer to dawn then. Grayson’s worried visage comes into my field of vision. He doesn’t say anything. His lips are pressed into a grim line. He wears no shirt.
Even in my state, I am momentarily distracted by this. The epitome of the male form. His skin is hot liquid over polished steel. His lips are pressed into a grim line. He drops down beside me and puts the palms of his hand to each side of my head. Warmth and strength suffuses me. His eyes are electric, staring straight at me. He doesn’t say a word, only inhales deep. Closes his eyes. And with his exhale I am hit with the full force of his power, the electric pain forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut.
I awake slowly, in wolf form. I shakily climb to my four feet and whimper at the pain that slices through my shoulder at the movement. The pine needles below my feet smell heavenly, and the warm fur next to me even more so. It smells like home. I am able to take a deep breath.
The first since Emily’s dagger plunged into my back.
It burns and aches, but the fire is cleansing, not poisonous. Grayson licks my face in obvious happiness. Dark clouds encroach into my outer vision, and though I shake my muzzle in an effort to stave them off, it is a wasted effort and the blackness claims my consciousness.
I spend the next three weeks in a weird haze. My brain seems disjointed from my body, perhaps because the pain and healing are too much for it to comprehend. I alternate between sleeping in the guest bed to sitting on a wicker chair on the porch – where I can breathe the fresh air and see the forest and it’s varying states. From shadowy dawn to golden twilights I watch. Some days I sit in the grass of Glory’s garden, looking up to the sky, thinking my body isn’t enough to hold me, that I can just float up and away, joining the clouds. A numbness has permeated my body and despite the efforts of Glory, Grayson or Marc, I remain numb.
Chapter 2
Do I ever really wake?
Perhaps it’s just that I start noticing things. A blurry world sharpens with focus.
There’s the scent of Gretchen’s cinnamon rolls. Grayson’s subtle spice and wood scent.
The sound of an engine cranking up, rumbling from the garage.
I follow that sound to its point of origin.
In the very last stall, Marc is standing next to chrome metal beast that is creating the growl that is reverberating around the space.
He turns when I reach his shoulder.
“Jeez. You scared me!” He reaches over and turns the key to shut the engine off.
“Didn’t know you had such incredible ninja skills.” He smiles, and I smile back delighted to see a little vulnerability in such strength.
His head cocks to the side, “Want to go for a ride?”
“Hell yeah. Let’s go.”
“Wait. You’ll need a jacket. Go find one and meet me out front.”
Eagerly, I spin on the ball of my foot and dash back out the way I came.
Upstairs, I pull open the dresser drawers that Glory had stacked a few of my things in. I pull a long-sleeved tee on over my tank, and then pull my favorite hoodie on over that. Zipping it up quickly, I dash back down the stairs and out the front door.
Marc is already there, helmet and sunglasses on, the bike rumbling.
“That all you got?” He eyes my sweatshirt.
A bit of embarrassment stops my feet from going any further forward.
“Umm. Yes?” I don’t know why I make my answer a question.
He plucks the helmet off the back seat and plops it on my head.
“Guess it’ll be a short ride, then. Just until we can get you some real gear.”
The promise of a real leather jacket perks me up. I fiddle with the chin strap, attempting to tighten it. But the thing seems stuck.
“Here, let me.” Marc’s fingers brush my own out of the way.
“What kind of bike is it?” I ask as he cinches the helmet tight.
“A Harley. Night Rod Special.” He climbs on, and pats the seat behind him.
I gingerly swing my leg over, sit behind him. My legs are brushing either side of his, and I try not to encroach too much in his personal space.
“On the turns, lean with me. You can hold here.” He places my hand on his outer hip.
It’s awkward, but I can be cool about this. Cool as a cucumber.
He gives the engine a rev before putting it in gear.
“Just hang on!” He does something with his feet, and we take off.
Not uproariously fast, as we are still on the driveway. Grayson’s Tahoe is pulling into the drive as we are pulling out.
I give him a little wave, and see that he stops to watch us as we turn onto the highway.
His door opens and he steps out to watch us take off. I lift a hand to say hello/goodbye, but hastily put it back on Marc’s hip as he twists the throttle hard.
The wind pulls at my hair, gravity at my body. I hastily adjust my grip tighter around Marc.
This is freaking amazing. The power, the speed.
If I’d ever ridden a roller coaster ride, I’d imagine it’d be like this.
Hardly nothing between me and the universe. It’s flying!
Marc takes a route down and through town. He stops at the local gas station and parks next to a pump.
He helps me off the bike, and embarrassingly enough my thighs shake a little when I stand up straight.
I smile at Marc and loosen the chin strap.
“That’s amazing! Will you teach me to drive?”
He smiles and gives a light laugh as he twists off the gas cap.
“You want to ride?”
A small worry in my stomach. “Well, yeah.” I answer honestly even though I’m a little unsure.
Is it silly? One-hundred pound me on a five-hundred pound bike? Yes. But.
Something in my heart. In my freaking soul can’t deny how awesome it’d be!
The only way I want to travel is on a bike! It’s so exciting! Freeing.
“I’ll teach you.” Marc confirms. He sticks the gas pump into the tank. Hits some buttons on the screen. Flips the lever to start pumping.
“We got a shopping list for us now. Leather jacket, gloves, and a bike.”
My heart sinks. I have no money. “Why can’t I learn on yours?”
It’d crush my pride to accept charity for a leather jacket and gloves, but I could swallow that.
But, I could never accept a whole bike. That’s eking into owing somebody something territory. And if there’s one thing I’m sure about, it's that I never want to owe anyone anything.
“Well, Charlotte here is a powerful beast. She’s heavy. Not the best training bike.”
I roll my eyes at the fact that he named his bike.
“What did you learn on?”
He rubs his chin. “Dirt bike. I think it’s been on the back forty for a while. Mom parked it, lifted out the battery after I crashed it through one of her prized beds. Maybe we can take a walk out there tomorrow and see if it’s still salvageable.”
He replaces the nozzle in the cradle.
I give him a smile to let him know I’m on board. His smile in return gives me hope.
Here’s something new. Something to live for. Something fun and meaningless.
“Alright. Get back on, let’s get going before the cold comes in.” He sits himself in the driver’s seat and I follow, eager
for another taste of freedom.
Chapter 3
The back forty is the cut meadow beyond Glory’s garden and to the left of the house. There’s an old horse barn there, and apparently it’s where the Faolain family’s banished heirlooms go to die.
It’s weirdly rustic on the outside, but clean and functional on the inside. Hard concrete floors, fluorescent lights. Stacks of furniture. A dining room table, an old living room set, a mattress and box spring set, a crib, dresser, and armoire.
To the left of all this, is what we’ve come to get. The dirt bike.
“I remember it being a lot bigger.” Marc laughs, “Guess I was just smaller last time I rode it.”
It looks like a toy next to him. One of those mini-bikes they sell at Christmas in the toy stores.
The color scheme is orange and white with a thick layer of dust. Definitely not as cool as his Harley.
But beggars can’t be choosers.
“It’s a four stroke. Lightweight. Easy to handle.” Marc flips up the kickstand. He wheels it out to the sunshine.
He sits the kickstand back down and squats next to it.
His diagnosis sounds grim. “Needs new plugs, a battery. Tires too. Then we’ll see if she runs.”
“You up for a little ratchet work, Indy?”
“I am if you are.”
He beams at me.
I walk beside him as he pushes it up to the house and into the garage.
He parks it beside his own Harley and throws me a rag.
“Wipe the dust off, and then we’ll see about opening her up. I’m gonna check online for replacement wheels, a battery. Go ahead and get our cart going.”
I do as he says, listening to his sounds of contemplation with mild trepidation.
“Ok.” He sets his phone down on the bench, picking up a tool. “Let’s get to work.”
I pass him tools when he asks for them, learning what they are as I’d never been introduced to them before. An hour later we’ve discovered the corroded carburetor.
State of Independence Page 1
