20 Shades of Shifters_A Paranormal Romance Collection

by Demelza Carlton

“Wook, Mama,” a little voice yelled behind him. “He naked!”

  John shot a look over his shoulder. The little girl, wet curls clinging to her pink cheeks, was pointing at him. The mother gasped and dragged her daughter toward the house. Would she call the police? John sprinted into the woods, ignoring the stabs of sticks and branches.

  Darkness, it turned out, was his friend.

  About a mile away in a sun-dappled clearing, John skidded to a stop. Nestled between pines and maples, he put his hands to his knees and took gasping breaths. Slipping the backpack off, he pulled out the plump package of hot dogs, his mouth watering. He tore the package open with his teeth. Meat juice slid over his tongue. He sucked down eight dogs, barely stopping to chew.

  Satisfied. Until the next time he needed to eat.

  He pulled open the backpack and dug into the contents. Inside he found a white T-shirt with the words Made in Detroit circling a wrench-wielding worker. He pulled the T-shirt over his head. It was a tight fit, but the soft fabric stretching across his chest relaxed him. He fished out a pair of women’s shorts next: light blue and nylon. He pulled them on and looked down. He might be a sporty cross-dresser, but at least he wasn't naked. He dragged out a pair of women’s running shoes, but couldn’t pull them over his heels. Barefoot for now.

  John stretched out on the carpet of pine needles and laced his fingers behind his head. Blue sky peeked between shifting patterns of green as the wind stirred the branches. The birds chirped to one another. John nestled back and soaked up the serenity. He watched a Chickadee hop into a nest with something clutched in her beak. Her babies peeped anxiously.

  He'd proven today he could survive. He was healthy and strong. He had brains. And he would remember who he was. Wouldn't he?

  He closed his eyes and pushed for a memory. Anything lurking behind the cobwebs in his brain.

  Slowly, an image of a grassy field appeared in his mind’s eye. Excited for even a wisp of memory, he strained to see the blurry image. Something solid rose from the grass—large, concrete, and cylindrical, like a silo. Was he looking at a farm? Something from his childhood? He tried to push the vision outward, stretching it in his mind, but the vision fogged and died.

  He opened his eyes, a headache pounding behind them. Whatever he'd seen, he knew it was important. That place called to him. He needed to find it. He closed his eyes again, searching for the memory, but nothing appeared, just a steady, unsettling void.

  The headache pounded harder and he was exhausted. He let his eyes shift to the overlapping leaves above. He couldn't keep them open.

  The earth rocked, a giant boom cracking through the quiet.

  He sat up. Around him, the birds cawed and thrust themselves into the air.

  This was bad.

  John bolted upright. He was sprinting toward the sound before he could think.

  A rift in the trees appeared and John skidded to a stop. It was as if something had crash-landed from above. The hairs on his arms stood up as he looked at the snapped and splintered tree trunks, the burning branches, the ground plowed in a quarter-mile scar of dirt and debris. A sick feeling crept up his throat. In the middle of it all sat a twenty-foot wide crater.

  Sweat broke out across his back. His breathing quickened. He stepped toward the crater, his heart pounding. Would someone…be inside it?

  John took a few uneasy steps until he was at the edge, the mounds of displaced earth squishing between his bare toes. He leaned forward, held his breath, and peered into the hole.

  Empty.

  He stumbled back. How did he feel about finding nothing? What had he expected? Someone inside it who could answer his one million burning questions?

  He felt so utterly alone.

  His eyes on the ground, he noticed something he'd overlooked—long scratches dug deep into the grass at the edge of the crater. It was as if something, some animal, had clawed its way up and out. How had it climbed out so fast? John bent down and touched a finger to the claw marks.

  They were huge.

  Branches thrashed on the other side of the crater. John stood upright, fear pumping. Deep in the tree cover, a shadow bolted away. John couldn't make out features, only size. It was big. Grizzly bear big.

  John didn’t breathe as the shadow swiveled toward him. Eyes blinked from the distance. Large, red, and angry.

  John stumbled backward. What kind of animal had red eyes? Away. He had to get away.

  He turned to run. Voices sounded from behind him; the locals must've heard the boom. When he looked back, across the wreckage, the shadow was gone.

  But not for long, John thought as he bolted the opposite direction, his heart hammering into his throat. Whatever it was it had smelled him.

  It would be back.

  Camila

  Tuesday 9:35 a.m.

  Camila tugged at the strings dangling from her jean shorts. The rich girls paid to have some poor Indonesian child distress their jeans, but Camila’s were homemade. She grabbed her work shirt off her bed. With Lizzy’s Ice Cream stenciled on the pocket, the Pepto Bismol pink tee was the newest shirt she owned.

  Maybe when she got her first paycheck she'd have a little to spare. She sighed and checked her ponytail in the mirror. Probably not.

  A glance around her room told her it was satisfactory. The hand-me-down floral bedspread was tucked around her mattress on the floor. In her closet, door-less since she'd inherited the room, her clothes hung in neat rows by color. The vanity she sat at was a thrift store purchase from Mama two birthdays ago. The varnish was chipped and peeling, but she loved the antique. The circular pink princess clock she’d been dying to replace said she was running late.

  Suddenly she smelled smoke coming from under the crack in her door. Camila jumped up and yanked the door open, her heart pounding.

  Twice this year Mama had almost burned down their trailer, her forgotten cigarettes smoldering on a pile of magazines.

  And damn, if she wasn’t going for a third.

  Searching the dark hallway, she saw no cloud. She sniffed again and there it was—something more than the Marlboro Ultras Mama chain-smoked.

  Something was on fire.

  Camila thudded down the hallway, dodging piles of clothes. She hurdled a rusted bike tire and a broken toaster, which balanced on a faded Barbie box. She plowed over a pile of baby shoes and felt something shatter beneath her foot. Ignoring the pain, she barreled into the living room.

  Mama was the motionless lump on the couch. The TV light made her look skeletal, like a bony husk detectives would find on one of those C.S.I. shows she watched.

  The acrid tang of burning plastic drew Camila’s eyes to the carpet. She spotted the smoke curling from the floor. The carpet was indeed on fire.

  “Jesus!” Camila stomped out the butt with her already throbbing heel.

  Mama’s eyes flew open. “Hijo de puta!” Mama muttered, her hand pressed to her chest. “Camila! Good God.”

  Camila lifted her foot and inspected the damage. She ripped off the singed sock and tossed it toward the overflowing kitchen garbage. Her heel was red and sore, but no harm done. You couldn't say the same for the carpet. The three-inch burn looked like a horrible brown tumor. Not that you could see the carpet under all of Mama’s junk.

  Adrenalin leaking out of her bloodstream, Camila sagged on the arm of the couch. One more crisis averted. She reached down and patted Mama's tiny hand, like bird bones wrapped in paper. “Mama, put the cigarettes out before you fall asleep. Our firemen aren't half as cute as that calendar Ms. K bought you.”

  Mama waved a dismissive hand. “Pah. I wasn't sleeping.” Then she raised a black eyebrow. “Not as cute?”

  Camila shook her head. “Not even close.”

  “Damn.” Mama leaned back, letting her eyes trail back to the TV which was showing something about a meteor hitting the dog park. Mama’s unwashed hair stuck up in the back, a black and gray nest dented on one side from where it lay against the armrest. What would it take to c
onvince Mama to take a shower? Those hot firemen probably.

  Camila stood up, careful to avoid a bowl of bloated Cheerios in sour milk. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Mama shook her head, switched the channel to HSN, and watched the designer model a new handbag.

  “Did you take your pills?”

  Mama nodded, her mouth open, mesmerized as a woman slung another purse over her bony shoulder. In the TV light, Mama’s eyes looked sunken, her skin translucent. How much weight had she lost this time? Ten pounds? Fifteen?

  Heavyhearted, Camila stepped over the piles in the hallway. She turned into the bathroom, clicked the door shut, and opened the medicine cabinet. She held the orange pill bottle up to her eye. Seroquel XR prescribed to Luisa Acha. She pressed her palm down on the white cap and the child safety lock opened with a soft pop. Camila dropped the pills into her palm.

  Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…Shit. Mama had not taken her pill today.

  Walking to the back of the trailer, Camila shot one last glance toward the living room, flickering in blue light. She smelled Marlboro Ultras. Her mother had lit another cigarette.

  She shut her bedroom door and dug out the little piece of paper tucked in her pocket. Opening it, she eyed the name and phone number, penned in secret, scrawled while Mama was down the street visiting Ms. K. If Mama knew what she was about to do…. It didn't matter if Mama freaked. Mama hadn’t worked in eight months. The unemployment barely paid the trailer’s mortgage and Camila wasn’t even sure if Mama had renewed it last month. Camila had dropped out of junior college and taken the first job she could find, but soon they’d be evicted. Or they’d both died in a burning pyre of Mama’s own making.

  She pulled out her cellphone and dialed the number with trembling fingers.

  Camila pressed the phone to her ear until it throbbed. Please, please, please pick up. With her other ear she listened down the hall for Mama.

  “Hello?” said the voice on the end of the line.

  Tingles broke out over Camila's arms. She cupped her hand over her mouth and spoke quietly into the phone. “Hello? I'm, ah…I'm looking for Beatriz Acha.”

  The voiced sighed, low and female. “I haven't gone by that name in years, but yeah, this is Bea. Who is this?”

  Camila's pulse quickened. Her eyes flicked to the door. “This is your niece, Camila.” She paused, a pit forming in her stomach. “Do you…remember me?”

  “Je-sus,” Aunt Bea said. Camila could hear her shift the phone. “Camila, God, how you doing? I haven’t seen or heard from your mami in, what is it, ten years? How old are you now?”

  “Twenty,” Camila said, a small smile breaking over her face. “It's been a long time, Aunt Bea.”

  “It sure has.”

  Someone shouted in the background on Aunt Bea's end. Camila listened as Aunt Bea pulled the phone away from her mouth and said, “Go downstairs. I gotta take this.” Camila pictured a husband or a boyfriend, handsome and rich. Aunt Bea’s voice came back in Camila's ear. “So,” she said slowly, “is everything okay?

  Camila felt that pit again, only now it had multiplied. “Not really. It's my mom. She's… She needs help.”

  A pause. “Does your ma know you're calling me?”

  Camila picked at her tank top strap and swallowed. “No, but I—”

  “Camila, honey, I can't get into this again. I tried to help your ma once, but…” She paused and blew out a breath. “No, I promised myself not again.”

  “But, she needs you.” Camila gripped the phone as if she could hold Aunt Bea on the line with force. Down the hall the couch creaked as Mama shifted. Could this call go any worse?

  “Then have her call me. Listen, do you want to come here? Is it that bad? I could send you a bus ticket.”

  Camila shook her head. “I can't leave Mama.”

  “I'm sorry. I really am. I just…” She paused, her voice hitching. “I can't do it. Not again. I love you, cariña. Be good to your ma.”

  Camila held the phone to her ear. “Aunt Bea?” The phone clicked. Gone.

  Camila dropped the phone on the bed and stared at it. After all the digging it had taken to find Bea's number, she really thought this call would be it. It was over so quickly her head spun. She picked up the phone and dialed the number again, her fingers trembling. It rang three times and then went straight to voicemail. Camila didn't leave a message.

  She pulled the piece of paper from her pocket and scratched a line through Aunt Beatriz. There was only one more name on the rescue list, her abuelo. No matter how much she scrounged, she could not find a number for her grandfather in Bolivia. Her eyes rested on the photo wedged under the mirror frame. It was the last time she'd seen him, eight years ago when Mama had felt well enough to fly them to Bolivia. She remembered the thick wet air when they'd stepped off the plane, the smell of Abuelo's aftershave as he pulled her to his chest in a giant bear hug, his hand around hers as he led them to his black sedan. Just before they'd slipped in, Mama had snapped this photo: she and her abuelo, arms around each other's shoulders, matching smiles and the dry, grassy plain behind.

  Now he was just a distant memory.

  Beside her, the tired A.C. unit hummed diligently, pushing cool air over her bare arms. She hugged herself and stared out her window into the dark street. Who would save them now?

  “Shit,” she said out loud. “I guess I’ll have to.”

  Tuesday 9:53 a.m.

  “Mama.” Camila offered her the bowl. “Take this. I gotta go.” She glanced to the clock. She'd have to pedal like mad.

  Mama glowered at the cereal. “What's in the bowl, mi amor?”

  Camila shuffled her feet. What would Mama do if she tasted the pill? “Nothing.”

  Mama eyed her. “You know where liars go,” she said, reaching for the bowl.

  “To the fires of eternal hell. Thanks for reminding me. How do you think Satan feels about bright pink?” She pointed to her shirt. “Will it clash with the everlasting flames? The instruments of torment?”

  Mama frowned. “Camila!”

  “Okay, okay. Just take the bowl already. I'm late.” She pushed it into Mama's hands.

  Mama sat up and cupped the bowl in her lap. After one spoonful, she twisted up her mouth. “Ah, the milk is bad.”

  Camila shook her head, trying to keep calm. “I just checked the date. It's good for two more days. Listen, get some sunshine today. I just read an article that said a vitamin D deficiency can cause depression.”

  Mama ignored her, pointing at Camila's T-shirt. “What job is this now?” she asked, reaching for the box of cigarettes on the couch arm.

  Camila chucked the box over her shoulder and pointed to the cereal bowl with a shake of her head. Mama scowled, but began eating.

  “It's the ice cream place, remember? Fer got me the job. I'll scoop 'til I droop.”

  Mama frowned. “That Jennifer. Why she wanna dress like a boy?”

  Camila pulled an empty Marlboro pack from a crack between two couch cushions and folded it between her hands. “Fer doesn't dress like a boy, Mama. She has her own…style.”

  “A boy's style.”

  “Mama!”

  Mama shrugged. “Okay, okay. I just don't want to see it rub off on you. You have a nice figure.”

  Camila tried to cover her blush with a scowl. “I gotta go.”

  Mama pretended not to hear. “Why I never see boys over here? You could use a novio. What happened to that boy… that Allen? Allen, wasn't it?” The spoon trembled as she lifted the Cheerios to her lips.

  “His name was Elliot.” Camila pressed her hands together. How long did it take Elliot to break up with her after his surprise visit to her house last fall? Camila still remembered the embarrassment on his face when she'd opened the door to her trailer. How his jaw dropped when he saw the garbage-filled foyer. No guy would ever come here again.

  Camila got up and walked to the door, gripping the knob with white knuckles. “We just park in the alley and h
ave loads of unprotected sex, okay?”

  Mama pointed a stern finger. “Camila Maria Consuela—”

  She cut Mama off by opening the door. Sunshine spilled in, lighting the dark trailer momentarily. “Look, don't worry. I'm a heterosexual virgin, the perfect Catholic, alright? Now I'm going.” She stepped out the door before Mama could stop her. Someone had to make the money around here.

  “Love you, mi amor,” Mama hollered as Camila shut the door.

  “Love you, too,” she muttered. “Don't burn the house down.”

  A shape jumped out at her. “What up, mother trucker!”

  Camila whirled to find Fer perched on her bike in the driveway, a cigarette dangling from her lips. To Camila, Fer was a teenage beauty: full red lips, creamy white skin, and round cheeks that were always pink in the middle. Most people were too distracted by Fer’s wardrobe. Her purple hair, the dye fading into a periwinkle gray, was pinched into a messy ponytail. Her pink Lizzy’s Ice Cream shirt was baggy and sported stains across her belly. Her boy's skater shorts drooped past her knees.

  Camila frowned at the curling smoke. “Surgeon General says smoking kills brain cells. That,” she said, pointing to the cigarette, “is why you scored in the 15th percentile on your PSAT.” She leaned down and spun the lock on her bike chain that was hooked to her porch railing.

  Fer shrugged and squinted into the smoke curling around her face. “I plan to live hard and die naked under a Victoria Secret model. Besides, I was copying off you, genius. Now enough with the chitchat. Move your ass 'cause we're late. If Lizzy's in she'll have her panties in a bunch fo sho.”

  Camila got into Fer’s ancient Ford and shut the passenger side door as Fer got in the driver’s side. “Sorry. Mama was giving me a lecture.”

  “The stay-a-virgin-‘til-you're-thirty routine? She knows you’re twenty-years-old, right?” Fer took a drag on her cigarette and blew a few smoke rings out of her puckered lips as she pedaled around.

  Camila shook her head as Fer pulled out. “Something like that.”

  Fer spit the spent cigarette out the window. It dropped to the sidewalk in a spray of sparks behind them. “Parents, man. Glad mine have finally stopped creeping up my ass.”