The woman shrugged her shoulders, hauling the shawl she wore more firmly around her hunched shoulders. “We're not sure. But there was a young woman who stayed here a few months past...” she looked down at her sensible shoes, the pantyhose an unnatural tan color and suddenly looked up, guilt and a muted horror, contained like a stuffed sock riding her eyes. “She uh... we think she was taken.”
Not much of a shelter! Cynthia thought, looking at the damage of the room more closely. She asked, “By who?”
The woman shrugged, backing carefully out of the room and giving her a nod as she left, closing the door softly behind her. Conversation closed.
Cynthia looked at the windowsill more closely.
Her chest tightened in a gut clenching clutch of pain, her breath leaving her body.
She traced the marring left in the wood of the sill with a hand that shook so badly she grabbed it with its mate to steady it. She gave a shaky exhale.
It wasn't who took the girl.
But what.
Cynthia snatched her hand back. She looked outside, beyond the glass and the unkempt yard below to the forest. It was dark and quiet.
A perfect hiding place.
For them.
Cyn backed up until her legs hit the mattress and sat down. She stared at the window. It looked like she might have escaped one horror for another.
Breaking her stupor, she rummaged in her backpack until she found what she was looking for. She laid down on her back, her finger running over the one photo she had, a habit of comfort these almost two years past. She never missed a night without looking at them.
It was Vegas. Just the four of them: Jason and Jules, she and Kev.
Before.
She looked at Jules, dressed up for once, Jason's arm slung comfortably around her shoulders, like it belonged. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, hot and unwelcome as she looked at Kevin. When they ran down her face she didn't wipe them away, but pressed the photo against her chest.
Her heart.
She missed them so much, she felt like her heart would never stop breaking. That's why her chest hurt so damned much all the time. A crack that wouldn't mend.
Her heart broken in shards inside her.
Cynthia covered the photo with both hands and put her head to the side of the pillow, stifling her sobbing from the other inhabitants of the women's shelter.
*
Truman
Truman looked at Alexander, their eyes meeting a final time. “I can't believe this. I know you're telling me all this but I can't...” Karl tapped his head.
“Wrap your head around it? Yeah, tell me about it!” Alexander responded, nodding.
Karl Truman fought the habit to take his small note pad out of its home in the upper pocket of his button down and clasped his hands together instead. “So they're...”
George Alexander nodded. “They're big suckers, standing on hind legs,” he made his palm flat and put it a foot above his head, “that makes these guys about seven feet.”
Truman whistled. “So, they're dexterous?”
“Very. They had no difficulty pawing through this apartment, turning knobs, unlatching windows. No,” he paused, not a hint of humor in his voice, giving Truman the full weight of his eyes, “they used the doors and windows, they have higher reasoning, no doubt.” George tapped his temple.
Truman paused, thinking about his words instead blurting just anything out. “How high?”
Alexander paused for a beat. “Maybe like us... maybe,” he scratched his head and turned his back on Truman, pacing off to the window, gazing at the forest that stretched interminably beyond their position, “... they are something else.”
“What are you saying George?” Truman walked up to him, getting right in his grill. He was going to spill this info if it killed him. His green eyes met Truman's.
“I'm saying we have real life werewolves.”
Truman staggered back a step. “No,” he denied, getting a physical reaction of heat climbing his body uncomfortably. His mind had spun around the possibility of it, eventually dismissing it as too unreal.
Alexander paced toward him, ticking off the facts on his hand, “Canine genome, DNA match, size, aggression, higher reasoning...” then after a pause, he let the final bomb drop, “the saliva tells us the final piece.”
Real enough.
Truman leaned forward despite not wanting to, his heart in his throat, the evidence warring with his disbelief over anything that was not concrete, normal.
Sane.
“Human genome,” George Alexander said quietly.
Truman stared at Alexander and he returned it, the moment swelled with portentous knowledge, belief solidifying.
Half human, half wolf.
Werewolf.
Alexander was reminded of one of the first precepts he had learned in med school, when you hear hoofbeats behind you, don't expect to see a zebra.
In this case, that's all he heard.
Zebras.
CHAPTER 32
Jason.
Maybe her eyes deceived her but Julia's heart knew.
She had watched as the feral melted away and a nearly naked Jason ran to her, staving off her killing blow.
She crashed into him, her arms snapping around him. His body felt at once shocking familiar and foreign in her embrace.
It was a moment before she knew something was wrong as pandemonium broke loose all around her. The different factions came together at once in a collision of claws, talons and speed.
Julia was prone on her back before she could move, breathe. Jason's now-human hands encircled her throat, her feverish skin burning against his cooler flesh. She frantically searched eyes that didn't know her, crazed and full of heat and hate.
Who was he now? Julia shrieked inside her head.
Her head swam and she began to grow dizzy, her stomach cramping as Jason... her husband from another life, another time... began to choke her to death.
Scott saw the feral return to his human state and launch himself at Julia. Scott bounded toward the feral werewolf just as he began to strangle Julia. The feral's mind was obviously broken.
William understood who it was the instant the red Were changed into human form. He had seen photos of Julia's former husband. But this was no longer the husband she knew, his mind was gone, the wolf in control even while human. Few Singers could overcome the transition to Were or vampire. It was never attempted, the results at this moment a confirmation of the dangerous consequence. The theory borne into fruition.
William charged Jason Caldwell at the precise moment as Joseph and Tony.
The vampire and Were collided and the forest grew still except for the sounds of flesh tearing and the battering of one against the other. Scott landed on the back of the Singer, aiming a blow to stun him, the vamps and Were fighting behind him, his siblings making a protective wall around him.
Jason felt the blow on the base of his neck, numbing in its accuracy and force, he began to slide away from the woman who he'd been strangling.
He recognized her too late.
Jason fell beside her, meeting her eyes.
Puzzle pieces of memories coming from a blizzard that twirled without pattern to a solid stream of consciousness.
This was not any female.
This was his wife.
Julia.
What had he done? He moved to get up and one of his kind leaped on his chest, knocking the wind out of him.
But not before her eyes had met his and Jason saw the one that had hit him pick Julia up as the Were and vampire beat each other into the forest floor, blood covering everything under five feet in a spinning tornado of gore.
Black and red ran together like a poisonous lake. He watched the blood of his kind and that of his enemy run together, his consciousness slipping away, the blow's accuracy successful in its intent.
Jason's last memory was Julia being taken from him in the arms of a large man, others like him surrounded them in a co
coon of protection, the vampire and Were dying and worse all around him.
He turned his head and looked at the female Were above him as his eyes closed, exhaustion from the Change and the revelation of what he'd done and who he was dropping him like a stone in a tumultuous sea of nothingness.
Jason fell away from her and Julia sucked in a lungful of precious air, a hitching sob the next sound that escaped, her abused throat on fire.
Jason had tried to kill her! It was worse than his death. He lived but wasn't him!
Two palms cradled her face and forced her to focus on the one who had saved her from certain death. First by her own hand, then the death that had been promised by a kiss of hands that had once loved her.
The electric shock of Scott's hands against Julia's skin instantly cooled the fever and stopped the internal turmoil of her stomach's roil. She felt him lift her from the ground, strong arms wrapped her against his body and he turned, a silent command which felt like intent rose from him like a sigh and the others gathered around him like soldiers.
Julia's head burrowed against his chest, her eyes just clearing his strong arm where they met the stare of Tony, dead vampire at his feet. William was nowhere to be seen.
Joseph was dead as well.
Tony was the new Alpha.
Fear rose in her instantly. Scott ran in the opposite direction and the group they left behind became smaller in her vision, Jason and Adi on the forest floor together. Jason unconscious and unaware, his head held by Adi.
Adriana's eyes were all for Tony, the victor over the vampire, his sights solely on Julia.
Tony threw his head back and howled into the still air of the forest, his rage filling Julia's ears, reverberating inside her soul like a discordant note of music.
Scott's arms pulsed around Julia once, tightening with protection.
Scott picked up his pace. The mongrel would never touch her again.
He'd stake his life on it.
THE END
Read More: Blood Song,Book #2
OR
The Blood Bundle, Books 1&2
THE REFLECTIVE
A Reflection Series Novel
Book 1
New York Times Bestselling Author
TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2013-14 Tamara Rose Blodgett
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Cover art by Phatpuppyart.com
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THE CAUSE
First: Right the Wrong
Second: Bear No Injustice
Third: Change Not What Must Be
Prologue
twenty years before
The midwife made her way along ancient cobblestoned streets, her shoes catching in the crevices though Principle knew, her shoes were as sensible as they come.
As was her occupation.
She would arrive in the birthing ward at exactly eight a.m. for her twelve-hour shift. Of course, it would not be twelve hours—it would be for however long the woman labored.
And if a Reflective were born ....
Just the thought of the potential for that caused a nervous thrill to flutter deep within Florence, as it did each time she worked.
The Reflective newborns must be swaddled in special non-reflective blankets. A baby would not be lost on her shift because it was a prodigy who jumped at a mirror or other reflective surface left uncovered.
Dear Principle. She shuddered, thinking about what the punishment would be for that. As it was, midwives couldn't use any surgical instruments that were not brushed stainless steel, and since the last unfortunate incident, the midwives had since moved to an all-ceramic surgical unit.
Florence swept up the massive steps. The rise of the treads was so low the stairs felt more like a gentle slope than true steps.
The sparkling flakes of charcoal that clung to the thick white granite reminded her that the sun still shone brightly, though their version of autumn would soon be here.
A shadow fell over Florence, and she twisted to look at the sky, her foot on the top step, her hand on the solid brass door handle that opened to the birthing center.
A swarm of butterflies, so thick it blocked the cerulean of the sky, dropped false night all around her as they flew through the rectangular vents that fed the ventilation system in warmer months.
The ports were a deliberate architectural feature that allowed entry to the only creature in their world that could identify a Reflective
So many.
Florence stood in stunned wonder. She had witnessed butterflies come to mark the birth of a Reflective, but never in such a great number.
Their importance was such that her world was named in their honor: Papilio, Sector Ten.
Their path created a rainbow of iridescent color, which poured like water through the narrow vents that had been carved in the solid stone of the birthing center.
All who lived in their world were born in similar structures.
However, Florence was one of few birthing center workers who had seen the highest incidence of Reflective births. She had requested placement to this one. After a five-year waiting period, she’d been assigned to the most prestigious.
She snapped out of her reverie as the last of the mingling kaleidoscope of insects funneled through the slits underneath the eaves of a copper roof, now aged a deep verdigris.
Florence tore open the heavy door.
She didn't hear it clank behind her as she ran the length of the corridor to the floor that housed laboring mothers.
*
Florence burst through the swinging doors as a man and a woman stood over a cradle.
Confused, Florence skidded to a stop.
What is this?
This... appeared to be the parents in front of a babe so new that some of the vernix still coated the wee one, her arms swinging as she howled.
Two nurses, one at the end of her shift and one in training, hung back.
Oh, for the love of all that is good. She stalked over to the newborn.
Florence halted as the sight overtook them all.
Their breath.
Their thoughts.
Everything but the scene itself melted away for those who witnessed the post-birth spectacle.
The butterflies descended, floating in a lazy spiral as the opalescent sunlight washed over their multicolored wings.
The chubby arms of the baby girl swirled and pumped, slowing as the butterflies drew nearer, and her echoing screams gradually grew quiet.
The insects lighted on the rails of the basinet in a portentous group, their wings moving in a steady sweep to maintain balance.
Their appearance froze the parents’ breath in their throats.
The moment swelled and grew in the stillness of the nursery, where rows upon rows of cradles pressed against the other. The parents watched the butterflies flutter precariously on the polished sides of the newborn's bed, landing only on hers and no other.
Their appearance was beautiful… final.
Florence strained to hear the mother's voice.
“She is Reflective,” she said in a sorrowful tone.
Her mate squeezed her hand so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Yes,” he replied, just as gravely.
Their gaze met in perfect understanding of what the future held for their daughter: a life as mercenary, hunter and hunted.
This was an honor and privile
ge among their people.
Florence closed her eyes in sympathy. A female Reflective—every parents dream… and nightmare.
*
five years later
Beth shot the plain glass marble across the stretch of earth, watching the glass orb tumble and spin as it met the others she’d shot in a smack of hardened glass. It swerved at the last moment, ricocheting off a shooter, and came to stand where she'd intended.
All the other children her age could play with any marble they chose, but she possessed no mercury-coated marbles.
Beth Jasper was a solitary girl.
But not one who lacked intelligence. Beth had felt the sadness from Papa and Mama and knew she would soon leave for the building that had a big shining silver papilio above the entrance.
Mama and Papa had taken her there the previous week to meet with a man who had a nose like the water birds that gathered near her family's pond.
His nose made it very difficult for her not to giggle. Beth sometimes had a problem with laughing when she shouldn’t.
Beth had observed and stood watch over her new surroundings, remembering what her adoptive parents had told her.
Beth, you must let us do the talking. Under no circumstances should you volunteer to train for a combative role. There are alternative roles for female Reflectives.
Beth crinkled her face at the memory. She understood all of what they wanted of her, and she would not shuffle papers and sit behind a desk, looking like the dolls she had given up playing with.
All Reflectives were far more mature than their human counterparts from the other twelve sectors.
Beth spoke like a teen, though she was five cycles. She puzzled through things that confounded adults.
She was faster, stronger, and brighter.
Beth was female.
When Commander Rachett of the Reflective Militia, who operated under The Cause leaned forward and delved deep, he tried to pierce young Beth's very soul. She met him halfway.
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