War of Fangs (The Unseen Book 1)

by L. A. Boruff

  WAR OF FANGS

  THE UNSEEN WAR, BOOK ONE

  Copyright © 2018 by L.A. Boruff

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1541067356

  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.

  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.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2020 Glowing Moon Designs

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2018

  Chapter 1

  Five years, gone. I scanned the framed pictures covering the back wall of my living room with unfocused eyes. Turning my listless head, I gazed at the black screen of the large, unused television. I was empty inside, and had been for about a year. At one point in my life, personal time was lost in books, movies, and bad TV—anything to escape the enormity of my lonely future. Dry air scratched my throat as I sighed for the hundredth time. Empty seconds ticked by, void of emotion. Meaningless.

  In previous years, on the anniversary of the beginning of my personal hell, my day was filled with tears and drama. I’d locked myself away to lament the hand life had dealt me. This year, for the first time, I was numb. The numbness was a boon—having no emotions sure beat the pain.

  As I watched a speck of dust float in the air, a knock at the door made me jerk. The weight of simply existing pushed me down, but I forced myself to rise and see who was interrupting my day of empty reflection.

  My revolver was in its hiding place near my front door, so I grabbed it and tucked it into the holster always at my back. I didn’t dress without putting on my holsters. Nobody would snatch me out of my home without a fight. Not until I got answers, anyway. Once I knew the truth, I might not bother fighting. Maybe I’d be able to let go and have peace.

  Through the peephole, I saw a man—hot enough to melt gold—waiting for me to answer the door. He wore slacks, a nice shirt, and a striped tie. Salesman. I rolled my eyes. I don’t have the patience for a fucking sales pitch today. I cracked the door open without removing the chain, one hand on the reassuring grip of my gun. “Can I help you?” My voice was polite, fake. The crisp fall air tickled my cheeks as I peeked through the crack in the door.

  My body gave a small surge of hormones as a sea foam gaze met my own. In that moment, I couldn’t see any other feature on his face. I was too focused on the rarity of his eye color. Those eyes could’ve been on the face of a troll and I wouldn’t have noticed. His irises, outlined by a thin ring of forest green, caused a small blush to warm my cheeks. I shook my head as if it would clear my thoughts. I’d begun to think my sex drive disappeared with my husband.

  Huh. Maybe you’re not void of emotion after all. With that thought, my husband’s face drifted through my head, and guilt consumed me. Until life coughed up some answers for me, I could only be dead inside. How could I enjoy anything when my family was missing?

  “Ma’am, my name is Darrell Abbott.” He flipped up an FBI badge. His voice was a deep bass, and though his words were professional, his timbre was sensual. “I was assigned your cold case and would like to speak to you about your husband, Michael Effler. Is it a good time for us to talk?”

  The hair on my neck prickled as I studied his badge. It resembled the other FBI badges I’d seen over the years, but something about him set off warning bells in my mind. Well, maybe he’ll distract me. I double-checked to make sure my holster was unbuttoned, closed the door, and removed the chain. Re-opening the door, I wordlessly stepped aside so he could come in. I pointed to a recliner where Agent Abbott could sit.

  I took a deep breath through a small sting in my chest. No one had sat in that chair for five years. In the plethora of conversations with the police and FBI, I’d never allowed anyone there. Why did I motion for this man to sit in my husband’s favorite spot after all that time?

  I perched on the end of my large sectional sofa, as far away as I could sit and still remain in the room. Staring past the agent I showed very little interest, even though I was finally feeling something besides numbness.

  His shoulders were wide enough to strain the expensive material of his button-up shirt. He was built like my husband, which caused more pain to hit my heart as memories flashed before my eyes. Michael was tall, towering over my own five-eight frame. Broad and muscular, he made my then-plump body feel dainty and petite.

  Agent Abbott cleared his throat and pulled at his tie as he studied my living room. His eyes rested on the various pictures of the many fandoms my family collected over the years. Art related to literary and pop culture icons covered the wall behind me.

  The detective sat in front of a wall filled with family pictures. Sometime in my second year of hell, I printed every picture we ever took and framed them. Determined to never forget a single memory, I covered the house in pictures my son colored, fan posters and art, or treasured photos.

  “Ms. Effler, can you start at the beginning and tell me what you remember from the day your family disappeared?” Agent Abbott cleared his throat again and stared at me expectantly as he held a small voice recorder with long, thick fingers.

  Eventually, I moved my gaze from his hand to his face. I’d avoided looking directly at him and allowed myself to study his features. His eyes stood out from a tanned face with a strong jaw line. Rich mahogany hair, a good month past time for a cut, fell to right above his ears. I noted a five o’clock shadow, which added to his rugged appeal.

  “Agent Abbott, right? Darrell Abbott?” I narrowed my eyes at his mesmerizing face and my mind filled with rage. He’d exhausted my patience.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, smiling.

  I adjusted my position so I could grab my gun, one hand behind me, against the couch. “If you’d cracked my case file you’d know that my husband was an avid listener of metal music. I don’t know what kind of teenage demon hunter show you think you’re in, coming here with a bogus FBI ID and a fake name, but Darrell Abbott was the real name of Dimebag Darrell, one of my husband’s favorite guitarists.” I swung my gun out from behind me and pointed it at his face. “Explain yourself, Agent Darrell Abbott.”

  “Riley, please. I mean you no harm. I’m here to help.” His vivid eyes were wide and pleading, and I was hit with an overwhelming desire to trust him. At the same time, a splitting headache formed. It started with a jolt between my eyebrows and then my entire head throbbed to the beat of my heart.

  “Stand up slowly, whatever-your-name-is. If you make any sudden movements, I will shoot you.” I stood, my head pounding. The faux agent rose, hands still in the air. The hair all over my body stood on end as I tried to watch every part of his body simultaneously.

  He spoke with a low, even voice, trying to calm me. “I’m going to turn away from you and walk to the door. I'm sorry I’ve upset you, and I want you to know I came here today with the best of intentions.” I held the gun steady in my hand as he turned and moved toward the front door.

  A shadow passed in front of my living room window, drawing my gaze. In an instant, somehow, the agent was in front of me, and my gun was in his hand. I gasped in surprise.

  It was a fraction of a damn second! How'd he move so fast?

  On the one-year anniversary of “the day,” I decided I was tired of fear. My husband and I already owned various guns, and while I was a pretty good shot, I’d begun to go to the shooting range daily
to practice. Money was no longer a concern without any family to spend it on, so I’d figured I might as well blow it on bullets. I’d considered putting one of those bullets in my head, but there were too many unanswered questions. I couldn’t leave this life until I knew what happened to my family.

  I’d also started taking self-defense classes, rapidly moving into private lessons. I’d trained with the best self-defense instructors in the area. I was good. Good enough that when a large man was unexpectedly in my bubble, I reacted.

  I felt his nose crunch as I slammed into it with the meat of my palm. His head twitched a bit, but he didn’t move his body, nor did he try to defend himself. What the hell? I drew back to hit him in the throat but was stopped by a jab of searing pain in my head. Whimpering, I dropped onto the couch. A thousand needles poked at my head. At even more of a disadvantage, I tried to kick him in the crotch, but he grabbed my foot in an iron grip. He didn’t squeeze, but I was sure that he could easily crush my foot if he did.

  “Please, Riley, calm down. Listen to my voice and try to breathe. I’m not here to hurt you. Defensive measures aren't necessary with me.” I realized as he spoke that my breathing was labored, and I was sure my eyes were wild. I twisted my foot out of his hand, vulnerable. “Please, really look at me, Riley. Look at my eyes, and you’ll be able to see I’m being honest.”

  Like I’d actually be able to read lies in his eyes. That only happened in books and on angsty teenage vampire shows. I considered his unusual eyes, and though he did seem genuine, I wouldn’t be basing my next move on perceived sincerity.

  “Step away from me, and I’ll think about calming down.” If I can get to one of the guns hidden in here, I won’t hesitate to shoot this time. The man had to be some sort of special ops if he was able to move across the room with such speed.

  He backed away, keeping himself between me and the front door. I was happy he was going in that direction—I needed a bit of room to reach the gun in the holster sewn to the side of the couch.

  Trying to ignore the constant pains in my head, I pulled my legs up on the couch, hoping to convey that I was settling in. “You have me up against a wall. So talk.” I placed my arm on the side of the couch, as close as I could get to the gun without reaching for it. I’d already seen that he could move fast, so I needed to be faster. Unfortunately, it was all I could do not to grab my pounding head.

  He spoke, his voice passionate and caring. The words caused me to freeze and the tone shook me. “Riley. I have the answers you need. I’ve watched over you for the past five years. I came here because I must help you.” I opened my mouth to argue and the volume of his voice rose. “I need to help you, to know you. You’re in danger, and I can’t stand watching from the sidelines anymore.”

  What sidelines?

  “My name is Anthony, and I know where your family is.” He rushed his words as if to prevent me from interrupting.

  My long-numb mind exploded. Thoughts raced so fast I saw my brain shatter in colors. The rush of emotions exacerbated my headache. I cried out in pain and reaching my gun was forgotten. I couldn’t think about my family, my desolate past, or the danger I was in. There was only pain.

  Convinced I was having an aneurysm, I tried to stand, but my legs buckled under me. “Call 911,” I gasped. My vision blurred, and I knew I was losing consciousness. I couldn’t stop my body from splaying out on the floor—my muscles weren’t listening to my brain. Anthony’s panicked yell sounded like it came from several rooms away.

  In the moment before my vision went black, it occurred to me that he spoke in the present tense. He hadn’t said ‘was.’ He’d said ‘is.’

  They’re alive.

  * * *

  Five Years Ago

  Though my boys were not fans of my favorite TV show, they’d be excited, knowing how much I loved it. I struggled to hold my keys and coffee in one hand and my cell phone in the other as I carried the painting of a blue telephone box into the house.

  “Boys? Michael? David? Where are you guys?” I dumped everything but my coffee onto the bookshelf by the front door of our small, silent home.

  “Danny, baby? Come see Mommy. You guys better not be napping this late! Daniel will be awake all night and I’ve got a long shift tomorrow.” Bounding upstairs, I checked the bedrooms and found the second story empty and far too tidy. My breathing accelerated, mother’s intuition kicking in. Something was wrong. Clothes, books, and shoes should’ve been strewn everywhere. I walked into the boys’ room and over to their open closet. My stomach filled with dread as I stared at the empty hangers and shelves.

  I stared at the space in confusion. My mind wouldn’t process an empty closet. I turned and opened one of the drawers in the chest of drawers we used as a toy chest. Empty drawer after empty drawer. In a blind panic, I ran to the bedroom I shared with Michael and jerked open the closet door. The left half of the closet was empty. Running to the other closet, I discovered Michael’s collection of rare toys was gone. I turned to study the rest of the bedroom, noting the comic boxes were gone as were the free weights usually kept in front of the half-empty bookcase. Breathing became difficult as I panicked.

  I called the police as I tore down the stairs, searching for any sign of where they might’ve gone. The operator answered as I opened the door to the coat closet in the living room, where we stored the family’s bulky winter coats. Only my coats were there. They looked lonely.

  “911, what’s your emergency?” A smooth baritone voice answered my call.

  “My husband and children are gone! It’s all gone! Please help me. I don’t know what to do.” I stood in the middle of the living room in hysterics, too panicked to cry. How could they have been gone? How could everything they own disappear in the span of my ten hour shift?

  “Ma’am, do you see any evidence of a break-in or anything else that would cause you to think anyone has been injured or kidnapped?” Nothing was broken or disturbed.

  All the oxygen exited my body. It was clear. Michael had taken the children and left me. Except that was impossible. “It appears that my husband has taken the children, but he wouldn’t. He has no reason. We’re happy! He wouldn’t leave. Please, please send someone!” By the time I finished, my voice was shrill, and I was on the verge of screaming.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll get an officer over as soon as possible.” I gave the operator my address and hung up. Unable to stay inside the half-empty house, I waited on the front porch, aching to hug my babies. I longed to lean against my rock and protector, my soul-mate. As I waited on the police, the pain began. And for five long years, it didn’t stop.

  ***

  The events of my afternoon flooded my mind when I woke from a dreamless sleep. My memories were clear; I remembered Agent Abbott—Anthony—and our entire interaction. His insistence that he knew the whereabouts of my family gave me wild hope. I played our interactions over and over in my mind.

  He must’ve carried me to bed. How often does this guy work out to be so strong? I’m no damn pixie.

  Headache gone, I leaped from the bed and ran down the stairs, searching for Anthony. The house was silent and dark. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep. It was bright daylight when Anthony knocked on my door, that much I knew, but in my disheveled frame of mind I couldn’t remember what the time was. For all I knew, it could’ve been before noon or almost twilight.

  A ding came from the living room. I ran to check my phone, but there were no messages—it was a stupid game notification. It’s already eleven? My search of the house was fruitless. He was gone. Boneless, I sank down onto the same couch I’d cowered on earlier. Alive—they’re alive.

  My mind split open, ripping away the numbness to let the emotional pain out like a knife cutting open a pathway to my tortured memories. The faces of my children flashed in my mind.

  Every day for five years, I paced the rooms and halls of my home, memorizing the pictures on the walls. Every day I recited precious stories of my husband and children s
o that my memories would stay fresh. But I didn't speak of my children to anyone, except the people working on their case. For five years, I’d refused to say their names out loud. I kept them inside, in my mind and in my heart. My attention moved to a picture of both of my boys, taken the day we brought our youngest home from the hospital.

  “David,” I whispered, “are you still taking care of your little brother? Do you still call him Dannel?” Daniel would be six and David would be eleven. For the millionth time, I wondered what they’d gone through, and if they’d suffered. I rose, trying to recapture the numbness before the pain broke me. Those kinds of questions always lead to pain. I was desperate to find numb again. How could I know if Anthony was telling the truth? His disappearance made his claims even less credible.

  It took me several minutes to compose myself. Shuffling into the kitchen for a bottle of water, I grabbed it out of the fridge, but didn't drink. Instead, I ogled the clear liquid, wishing it was alcohol. Opening the cabinet above the refrigerator, I looked up at the bottle of whiskey. We always kept the liquor there, well out of the reach of the curious David.

  About a week before my world went black, I’d purchased the bottle. I wanted to drink the entire bottle and make the pain disappear. My numbness was gone, and the pain was back as if the horrible events happened yesterday.

  The weeks after their disappearances were horrible. I couldn’t come up with a single reason why Michael would leave with the children. Horrible scenarios plagued my thoughts, leaving me anxious and nauseous.

  After extensive questioning of me and anyone connected to our family, the police called in the FBI. They agreed it would be out of character for Michael to leave with the kids of his own volition. They also agreed that he would’ve needed help. Help to vanish without a trace—and to be able to take their things. I was left with the baby books and memory boxes and the hard drive with pictures stored on it.