BloodMarked (The Fraktioneers Book 1)

by Lu J Whitley

  Hannah’s line had gone straight to voicemail. So he’d left a brief message, using all the key words she’d been trained to understand over the last eighteen years. And for the next two hours, he’d left what had seemed like a thousand similar messages.

  He’d finally broken down and called the house phone around ten, knowing Greta would be in school for the day by then. When he’d heard Hannah’s thick German accent on the other end of the line, he’d almost passed out from relief.

  She’d listened to him intently as he’d relayed his version of the previous night’s events. “Nothing here,” she’d told him, “We’ve seen nothing.”

  “You need to go get her. Now,” he’d gritted, but then he was reminded that Hannah Brandt didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do. Ever. Even when Greta’s life was in imminent danger.

  She’d told him exactly where he could stick it – in a little more detail than was necessary – and reminded him how many false alarms they’d had in the past. Which was more than he’d like to admit, but he knew it was different. Knew deep down that the danger was real this time. “They won’t get her at school,” she’d huffed, and she was right. The Takers were far too cautious to risk attacking her in public. In broad daylight. “She'll be home around three.”

  “Fine,” he’d all but growled into the phone. “But when Greta gets home, I want you to get in the car. Don’t pack. Just get in the car and drive. Call me the minute you’re on the road, and we’ll set up a place to meet.” She’d halfheartedly agreed and told him she would talk to him at three. So at three, he’d been staring at his phone, willing it to ring. The same at four. Five. But nothing. No calls. And no answer when he’d called every number he could think of, even Greta’s personal cell as a last resort. Nothing.

  Now he was here – stuck - wearing ruts in the faded paisley carpet. Thoughts whirling through his head, and there was nothing he could do except wait out the light and hope he wasn’t too late.

  ★ ★ ★

  Greta held an icepack to her bruised collarbone as she boarded the bus back home. Rugby practice had been brutal. Scrum and ruck drills, her favorite. She’d been doing great until she’d taken a well-placed elbow to the throat and gone down like a deflated balloon. She’d have to remember to thank Jen for that one. Until next week, she'd look like she’d gotten a hickey from a Sasquatch. Thankfully, a sudden downpour had turned the pitch to mush, and practice had been cut short.

  She pulled her arms in at her sides, feeling her aching muscles bunching together as she shimmied down the center aisle and took a seat at the back. Like she always did. The less people at her back, the better. Her father’s paranoia was one of the few things she’d inherited from the man.

  Perhaps that’s why, all day, she couldn’t shake the feeling someone was following her. She took a quick glance around the packed bus, studying the faces. She didn’t know what she expected to find. A black cowboy hat. Someone twirling a waxed mustache while they collapsed in a fit of maniacal laughter. She chalked it up to stress. The nightmares had been taking a toll on her, making her feel more exhausted when she woke up than when she’d gone to bed. Like she’d run a marathon in her sleep.

  She wasn’t sure how many of her memories could be trusted and how many were colored by a five-year-old’s view of the world. But she knew one thing with absolute certainty, monsters were real, and she had the scars to prove it. Not that she’d ever told anyone. Not her current shrink. Not even her best friend, Jen. How exactly was she supposed to bring that up? The scar on her right ankle had warped as she’d grown into her adult body. Making it simple to convince any questioning party that she’d been bitten by a dog. Not a man… Or something masquerading as a one.

  She shook her head, trying to loosen the thought from her brain. Thinking about that night never led to anything good. She leaned her head back against the velour seat, closed her eyes, and called upon her white palace. Feeling her breath slowing and her body relaxing as she headed into that place of peace.

  Greta shuddered. In her mind’s eye, she saw her five-year-old hand. So tiny as it fit inside her mother’s palm.

  Oh. No. She didn’t want to be here.

  She tried to back out of her mind. Open her eyes. Think happy thoughts. Puppies and pixie dust and Disney movies. But nothing worked.

  “Schnell,” Mama whisper-shouted to her. “Hurry, Greta!”

  She felt herself being pulled along behind her mother, bare feet making sharp slaps against the frigid marble as she ran. She knew that she needed to turn around. Needed to find her shoes. She wasn’t allowed to go outside without shoes. She tugged on her mother’s hand and told her they needed to go back. Though she only knew a little German, she knew her mother’s grumbled response had something to do with bees not flying in winter.

  The year before, Greta had been playing outside barefoot and had stepped on a bumblebee. The anaphylactic reaction had been swift and almost deadly. Especially in Greta’s family, where hospital visits didn’t exist. Someone was always watching, waiting for them to surface.

  She protested one last time, but her mother made no sign she heard her pleas. She led Greta through the French doors at the back of the house and out onto the balcony. The cold night air bit at her through the thin fabric of her pink Barbie pajamas. Though it was near midnight, the full moon was more than enough light to see by as they rounded the corner into the side yard, past her sandbox, and toward the front gate.

  Her mother stopped suddenly, and Greta slammed into the backs of her legs, almost knocking them both off balance. Muffled shouts sounded from the front yard, and flashlight beams strobed through the garden fence. Mama uttered a word that Greta knew she’d never be able to repeat unless she wanted her mouth washed out with soap.

  Pulling her by the hand, her mother led her to the juniper hedge. The shrubs sitting on a low retaining wall that edged three sides of their temporary home. “Here, Greta,” Mama whispered as she grabbed her roughly by the arms and shoved her under the prickly branches. “Stay quiet. Don’t come out until I come to get you.”

  “Mama,” she protested weakly, but her mother was already turning away and heading toward the line of cherry trees that bordered their yard.

  Greta crawled back beneath the bushes, the sharp leaves stinging as they pulled at her hair and skin. She moved until she felt the stucco wall at her back, still warmed from the unseasonal sunshine they’d had for most of the day. She pulled her knees up to her chest to keep herself warm and make as small a target as possible, like Papa had taught her to do if this situation had ever happened for real. And this was as real as it got.

  She tried to calm herself. Take in everything about her surroundings with the detached clarity her father had been drilling into her for as long as she could remember. The moon was high and full. No clouds. She knew the temperature would be falling quickly. She noticed the crocuses peeking out of the earth around her feet, a little too early in the year, and she knew the frost would take them, just like it would take her if she stayed out in the frigid air for too long.

  To keep from thinking about the cold, she retreated into her white castle, shut the door on the world. Papa had begun teaching her to go there on her fifth birthday. They’d drilled every morning until she could clear her mind and open herself to the blinding white with hardly any effort.

  What seemed like only a few moments later, the sound of rough footsteps brought her out of the trance-like state. She heard a train whistle in the distance and knew it must be the 12:30 from Hamburg to Berlin. She’d often heard its sad cry as she and Papa had snuck up to the roof to look at the stars.

  Now that she was fully back in her body, she felt the biting cold slicing through her hands and feet, a burning numbness taking hold. She ignored the chilling sensation and listened again for the footsteps. The disjointed, staggering gait was drawing closer to her hiding place. That’s not Mama. It wasn’t her father’s strong, sure steps either. She huddled closer to the wall, almost
willing herself to become invisible. The steps came to a halt a few feet away. She craned her neck, trying to see who it might be, and quickly realized what she was looking at wasn’t human. It was putting on a good show. Two arms. Two legs. One head. But something about the way the skin sat against the bones was just… wrong. Sagging in places it should have been tight. Stretched taught across areas that ought to have been loose. The thing turned from side to side, as if scanning the garden. It took in a deep breath, and she hoped the pungent juniper berries would mask the scent of her fear.

  “Come out little one,” it crooned, “We know you are here.” The voice was all wrong. Sounding garbled, as if it was talking with a mouthful of marbles. From under water. Greta began shivering so hard she thought she might snap her bones in half, but she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t know why, but she knew if she did, a fate worse than death awaited her. “Little one?” The thing took a step in her direction. “We won’t hurt you. We want to take you to your Mama and Papa.” A few more ambling steps forward, and the creature was so close she could have touched it. “Don’t you want to see your Papa?”

  Two more creatures appeared in her field of vision, carrying something between them. A man. Beaten bloody. Clothes shredded. Papa! She choked back a scream, trying her best to keep quiet, but it was too late. Fast as a snake strike, the thing reached into the hedge and grabbed her by the ankle. She fought and clawed. Kicked and thrashed. She dug her hands into the stucco wall so deep she left one of her fingernails behind. The creature wrenched her from her hiding place, tossing her down to the frosted grass and standing over her. Looking down at her with odd yellow eyes that seemed more reptile than human.

  “Ah. There we are,” it hissed. “Such a little fighter. Just like your Papa.” She hazarded a glance over her shoulder to where her father was still hanging, unmoving, between his captors. Her captors.

  She thought back to all the times her father had told her that she should never, under any circumstances, be taken alive. Death was welcome. Capture was worse. The creature reached down, leathery fingers clutching for her arm. Enclosing her in a cloud of putrid breath. The scent of rot was so strong, she had to fight back a gag.

  Her eyes blurry with unshed tears, she took one last look at her father, then summoned all of her remaining strength, chasing the lingering numbness out of her limbs with a surge of adrenaline. Greta dodged the creature’s grasp and charged to her feet. And she ran. Ran as if the Devil himself was chasing her.

  She hit the open gate at full speed and rushed out into the street, hoping there would be no cars at this time of night because she couldn’t be bothered to look both ways. She took a wide left turn, almost tipping sideways as she scrambled up the steep sidewalk toward an ivy covered wall. She knew the path so well, the limited light only made her harder to follow. She curled her hand over the ivy curtain and wrenched it to the side, revealing a narrow storm drain. Without giving a backward glance, she dropped to her belly and started to shimmy into the rough concrete pipe. Her shoulders and hips were already through the opening when she felt a sudden, stabbing pain in her right ankle.

  She tried to roll over. To look back. But something had a hold of her and wouldn’t let go. She kicked and screamed, but the thing held fast, latching on to her flesh with its teeth.

  She saw stars as she thrashed around in the narrow pipe. Her chest constricted by her position and the acrid stink of decaying muck filling her lungs. Then, almost as suddenly as the thing had grabbed onto her, it let go. She was pulling against it so hard she shot forward, cracking her skull soundly on the gritty wall of the tunnel. She shook her head to clear out the spider webs of black that were beginning to close in around her vision and started pulling herself, dragging her useless foot behind her, to the other end of the drain.

  The creature behind her let out a shriek that should have cracked every window along the sleepy cul-de-sac just as she wriggled free of the last few inches of pipe. She sat, pulling in deep breaths, her back propped against a parking block. She knew she needed to keep moving. More creatures could be after her, but she looked down at her shredded ankle. Rivers of black blood were flowing across the lukewarm asphalt. Leaving her too exhausted to move. She keeled over onto her side. Her head was too heavy to hold up anymore. Her muscles quivering as the last vestiges of adrenaline left her system. Leaving her cold.

  So cold.

  She was dimly aware of a shape moving over the wall beside her. A massive figure cloaked in black except for a shock of long golden hair and terrifying, glowing red eyes. The beast grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her roughly. “Wake up,” it grunted. She tried to push it away, but it held fast, shaking her. She screamed, but the shaking continued. She shut her eyes so tight, hot tears streamed down her cheeks. “Miss, you’ve got to wake up.” A voice reached her, wherever she was inside her head, and she opened her eyelids, bright light searing her most likely bloodshot eyes.

  “Where am I?” She coughed, her voice hoarse from screaming. A slew of concerned faces was turned in her direction.

  “You’re on the bus, miss,” the young bus driver said in a soothing tone. “You were screaming.” Well, thank you, Captain Obvious.

  “Sorry,” she grunted, grabbing her bag and beginning to push up from her seat. “Sorry,” she repeated, louder this time when she looked back up and saw he hadn’t budged an inch.

  “Is there maybe someone I could call for you, miss? Parent? Friend?” Shrink, she silently finished for him.

  “No.” Christ. Dr. Bradshaw would have a field day with this. She pushed past him and dashed up the aisle, trying to avoid the stares of the interested passengers as she made her way down the stairs, off the bus, and into the night. She was halfway down a nearby alley before she realized she had no idea where she was, and that the sun had already gone down.

  Jesus. How long was she on that damn bus? She pulled her cell out of her bag and checked the screen. 6:20 PM. Three hours! She’d lost three hours! She flicked her thumb across the lock screen and was instantly bombarded by a slew of voicemail notifications. From her mom. Shit. Without listening to the messages, she bit the bullet and punched up her mom’s contact info. Three rings in, the voicemail picked up. In the middle of her long, sad apology for being a terrible daughter and missing dinner, her phone disconnected. Dead.

  Well. Damn. Could this day get any worse?

  She stowed the phone back in her bag. Scanning the moonlit night, she decided on a direction and stalked off toward the bright mass of lights that could only be one thing out here in the middle of nowhere.

  Walmart.

  ★Chapter 2

  Ragnarsson moved like a shadow, avoiding the pools of sunlight that were slowly disappearing into the twilight. He knew it was a risky move to head out before the sun had sunk safely below the horizon, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. Not knowing. Fearing he was too late.

  As a general rule, he didn’t fear much. It was a useless emotion. One of the many he’d learned to rid himself of over his long lifetime. Like mercy. Useless. Joy. Love. He was a man on a mission, and it was all he needed. But rationalize all he wanted, a cold sweat broke out across the back of his neck as he thought about what might be happening in a quaint little two-bedroom Victorian on the other side of town.

  Takers: Bortbytingen, if you wanted to get technical, but no reason to, Takers suited them just fine. That’s what they did, after all. Take. Your skin. Your life. Who needed sunscreen when you could borrow a handy 100 SPF skin suit? Ragnarsson shivered. Eight hundred years, and the fuckers still gave him the heebie-jeebies.

  He’d spent most of his existence trying to keep their numbers down. Killing the ones he could and trying to give the ones he couldn’t kill as much of a pain in the ass as possible, but it didn’t do much good. Takers were notoriously hard to kill, and they bred like rabbits on Viagra. Luckily, a vast majority of them preferred to live quiet lives underground and never developed a taste for skin walking. Yeah, lucky. The huma
n race would’ve been decimated centuries ago. And as much as Ragnarsson didn’t give a shit for the human race as a whole, he’d been human himself once, a long ass time ago, and it chafed that these bastards thought they could come graze willy-nilly on his turf. Not today.

  “Fuck!” He grimaced as a phantom wave of fear ghosted through his body, his hair standing on end. He broke out in a cold sweat, his palms slick with moisture as he speared his fingers back through the strands of hair that had escaped from his long braid. “What the hell was that?”

  He stilled. Cased the area around him for danger, but found none except the last lingering rays of sunlight that broke the thickening shadows here and there. It certainly wasn’t enough to send this sick tide of panic washing through him. He shrugged it off, resettling the strap of his satchel across his chest, and he dashed to the next dark space, trying to avoid the light where he could. That much sunlight wasn’t enough to harm him, not really. But it still hurt like a son of a bitch.

  “Fuu-uuck,” he grunted like he’d been kneed in the balls, pitching forward and barely catching himself on the side of a building before he went face first onto the pavement. He leaned his forehead against the cool brick, feeling like he'd vomit if he stood upright. Adrenaline shot through him, telling him to run, but there was nothing chasing him.