20 Shades of Shifters_A Paranormal Romance Collection

by Demelza Carlton

  A hand clasped his forearm. John snapped his head up.

  “Let’s go,” Nomad said, tugging. “Quit jacking around.”

  Nomad dragged him skyward and John willed his body along. Somehow he rose until he was soaring up, up into the night sky.

  Camila

  Thursday 8:55 p.m.

  Camila stared at the door. Her heart was in her throat. Did he just say—

  “Open up. It’s the police,” the voice urged.

  Camila’s wide eyes found Mama’s. “What did you do?” she whispered.

  Mama shook her head, terror filling her face. “Nothing. Oh God, Camila.” She crossed her chest, clasped her hands and began mumbling a prayer in Spanish.

  Camila strode to the door, her whole body trembling. This was it. This was where they would lose everything. The police would come in and find the shoplifted items… O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us.

  “Just a moment, officer.” Her voice rattled like a twig in a hurricane. Pull it together, she thought. She clenched her hands, swallowed the fear, and turned the doorknob. She slid into the little crack between the door and the jamb and peered out.

  One uniformed police officer stood on her stoop. Another waited at the base of the steps. They were both relatively young and trim, though one had a belly that rounded over his belt. The cop on her stoop met her eyes and nodded.

  “Hello, miss. Are you the owner of this residence?” His voice was not unkind, but she couldn’t tell if he was just putting on a good face before he dragged her away.

  Camila shook her head. “No, officer. It’s my mother’s, but she’s at work.” She prayed Mama would keep her mouth shut.

  The officer glanced back at his partner and then up at Camila. “Miss, we’re going house to house in this area to determine if anyone's seen a suspect in a crime.” He held up a sheet of paper. Camila stared at it.

  John. The sketch on the paper was clearly meant to be John with the strong jaw, sad eyes, and short hair. The ears and nose were all wrong, but the rest of him was there. Camila gulped and tried to sound casual though her insides tumbled like a washing machine. “I…I’ve never seen that person before. Is he the…the killer?”

  She just lied to a police officer. Pray for us who have recourse to thee.

  The officer dropped his paper and leveled his gaze. Camila tried to breathe, tried to think. Her stomach was on spin cycle, her head following.

  “He’s wanted as a suspect in a murder investigation. I’m sure you’ve heard of what’s been happening around here.”

  Camila nodded. Breathed. Tried to smile.

  “Well, if you see anyone you think matches this description, please call the police. And keep your doors and windows locked. Don’t venture out alone. Don’t go in secluded areas.”

  “Are you sure?” she blurted.

  “Miss?” he looked at her questioningly.

  “Are you sure they were murders? I heard that it was probably an animal attack.”

  The cop looked down at the sketch of John. “I cannot discuss the particulars of this case with you, but we are sure you should call us if you see this individual.”

  It felt like a punch in the stomach. Camila leaned against the door for support.

  He narrowed his eyes. “When is your mother going to be home tonight?”

  Camila tried to look normal. She was pretty sure she was failing. “My mom usually gets home around nine.”

  “Good.” He nodded, sticking a thumb in his belt. “We could wait, but—”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m an adult,” she said. “I’m sure you have more houses to hit.”

  The officer nodded. He looked tired. His partner leaned his hip against her stoop and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, if you’re alright.”

  “I’m fine. Thank you. Goodnight.” Camila clicked the door shut and turned the lock. Then she pressed her back to the door and tried to breathe.

  “Camila,” Mama said from her place at the table, “what they want?”

  “Nothing.” Camila rubbed her forehead. Where was John? Was he alright? A deeper worry throbbed at the back of her brain. Had she been wrong about him this whole time? He'd told her the cop thought he'd killed the man when he hadn't. That they’d let him go.

  She pulled out her phone and started looking at dates and times of the murders on local news stations. When she found the date and suspected time of the third murder, she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She’d been with John at the time they suspected the last person had been killed. That night he stayed over. He couldn’t be the one.

  But that sketch sure looked a lot like Nomad.

  “Camila, what did they say?”

  Camila looked up at Mama. The joy of the moment had been sucked out of the room. Camila strode to the table and started clearing off dishes, tossing napkins and paper plates in the garbage.

  “But, you haven’t finished eating,” Mama grabbed for the humitas, which Camila was attempting to swath in cling wrap.

  “I’m finished,” Camila said, pulling the dish back. Her voice was steel as her hands clenched the Pyrex. “Thank you for the meal. Really. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Mama crossed her arms. “You don’t sound like you appreciate it at all.”

  A rage bubbled inside of Camila. She swung around and narrowed her eyes. “What I’d really appreciate is if you’d get back on your meds and stop this madness. One home-cooked meal doesn’t change the fact that we live like crazy people all the time!” Camila dropped the Pyrex to the table and shook her hands in the air. “You think one meal makes up for the nights you never come home? The days there’s nothing in the fridge but ketchup? Worrying that the cops,” she pointed to the door, “are going to show up and arrest you.”

  She slammed her hands into the table, rattling the glasses. “Thanks for the humitas, Mama, but what I’d really appreciate is a mother who isn’t a criminal.”

  She’d gone too far. She knew it. Yet her chest felt lighter. The years of pent-up frustration, of never saying a word had slowly eroded her life one square inch at a time.

  Mama’s face contorted into a look of astonishment, then rage. Her five-foot-two frame rocked back and forth. “How dare you speak to me that way!”

  “Mama, I—”

  “Shut up,” Mama snapped.

  It felt like a slap. Camila dropped her jaw.

  “Now you listen to me.” Her hands shook as she racked them through her wild curls. “I am sorry that you haven’t had a perfect life, but I always loved you. I always done the best I could for you.” Mama punctuated the word with her finger. “You might think you'd have some perfect life with a better mami, and maybe you would, but we don’t get a choice in our familia. Just like I didn’t get a choice when my papi kicked me out at sixteen because I was pregnant with you.”

  Tears filled Mama's eyes. “But, I would never, ever do that to you.” She paused, sniffled. “Those pills make me feel like I'm dead. Dead!”

  Tears rolled steadily down Mama’s cheeks. She shoved them away with the back of her hand. “I won’t stand for this kind of treatment in my own home.”

  “I’m sorry,” Camila mumbled, but Mama grabbed her purse and streaked for the door. “Mama, wait. They said we shouldn’t leave.”

  Camila watched as Mama slammed the door behind her, rattling the kitchen window. The sound cut through Camila like a quake. Tears trickled down her cheeks and she let them fall. Hot, angry tears. She wanted a million tears. Enough to wash this shitty trailer away. To wash her away.

  Camila walked over to the cluttered roll-top desk, shoved a wad of papers out of the way, and rolled it back. Bills, receipts, and envelopes covered every surface of the desktop. She heaved a frustrated sigh. It would take ages to dig through all this. She pressed her hands to the chipped wood lid. Two tears slid down and splatted on a wrinkled Kmart bill from 1999.

  Her eyes landed on a yellowing address book with a faded kitten on the
front. Camila blew the dust off and flipped through. The pages were littered with old addresses, long scratched out, names that once had meant something to her mother. There was her babysitter from second grade crossed out. The next page listed Mama's friend Holly from a church they no longer attended. Each name was like a stake through her heart, one more person that her mother had cut them off from. She wiped away the tears and kept going.

  Cruz Acha, her grandfather, was on the first page, but all the numbers had been inked through. Camila stared at the digits, cut through with blue pen, and ached. The numbers and addresses were severed ties to a family she could never reach. Her eyes fell on the last number, crossed out. What if it wasn’t an old number? What if Mama had crossed it out in anger?

  Camila dug her cellphone out of her pocket, heart pounding. She dialed the international area code as Mama had taught her so many years ago. Then she pressed the numbers and held the phone to her ear, barely breathing.

  There were a series of clicks and a long expanse of silence. What would she say to him if he answered? She hadn't talk to him since she was eight years ol—

  “Hola. Residencia Romos,” a woman’s voice said.

  Camila’s brain flipped to Spanish mode. “Hola. Estoy tratando de llegar a mi abuelo, Cruz Acha. Abuelo? Entender?” Why hadn’t she thought about what she would say before she called? She pressed the phone to her ear until it hurt. Please let him be there.

  The woman on the other end paused. “No. No hay nadie llamado asi aquí.”

  Her translation was slow. No one here by that name? “Wait. There has to be a mistake,” Camila stammered. “Uh…Error. Por favor.”

  “No comprendo.” The phone clicked.

  “No. Wait.” The line buzzed in her ear. Whoever she'd been talking to was already gone.

  She stared at the phone for a long minute, feeling her hope crumble. She flipped more pages, finding no one. She took the address book and threw it. It hit a dusty picture frame, which toppled to the floor and smashed.

  “Goddamn it!” She shook her fists, a silly gesture, but one that brought her no comfort. She wanted to smash more than a just frame, but Mama would notice. Tears sliding down her nose, Camila leaned down and picked up the cracked frame. The picture was one she'd seen a hundred times, Mama on the beach with her friend Holly in tiny bikinis, their tan bodies glistening in the Florida sun. It lay half out of the frame. She tried to slip it back in, but something was wedged behind it. Another photo. Her fingers dug out the crinkled image.

  A man with dark curly hair and a thick mustache smiled at her from the faded photo, a suave Antonio Banderas type. His eyes held a spark of mischief that drew her in. As she lifted the image she realized the photo was creased so the second half of the picture was folded back. Camila slipped her fingers around and opened the photograph up all the way. The crinkled image formed into one of a happy couple, pressed into each other, smiling.

  The woman was Aunt Beatriz. She recognized her from pictures she'd seen. Was this…? Was this the man Mama had stolen? Camila stared at the image, feeling faint. Slowly she turned the photo over.

  Scrawled in Mama's handwriting was the name Marquez and ten digits.

  A phone number. Her father's.

  John

  Thursday 9:22 p.m.

  John streaked through the purple star-strewn sky as if in a dream. Flying. He couldn’t believe it.

  They soared over a carpet of evergreens, the scent of pine thick in the air. Below, a rippling river sparkled with moonlight as the water tumbled over the rocks. A slash of highway cut through the trees, red taillights blinking as they passed. The cars were black beetles, trundling along below him. So small from up here, he thought. It made him feel huge, like a god. Camila would never believe this.

  Camila. An image of her face awash in disappointment flashed before him. She was safe with her mother. And she’d forgive him when he explained everything.

  Nomad flitted a few feet away, bobbing and weaving like an otter through the air currents, the wind rippling his clothes. Every so often he’d flash John an amused grin. Then he’d go back to dipping below the treetops, or swooping down into the shadows only to pop back out again in a spray of leaves. John smiled, but didn't attempt any loop-de-loops. His brain had enough trouble processing up and forward.

  Nomad swooped in and pointed toward a gleaming metal structure in the distance. John squinted towards it. A large expanse of water shimmered in the moonlight. A bridge, a long one too from the look of things, stretched across the water. Lights dotted the suspension cables in two giant triangles. Across the water, dark smears of land sat on the horizon. Where were they?

  Nomad guided him to the very top of one of the suspension towers. He touched down on a white walkway about four feet wide and twenty feet across. John followed, grabbing for the metal railing and slamming into the outside with a metal clang! He scrambled over and fell on his back onto the platform.

  Nomad stood above him, smiling, his hair wind-whipped. “You're missing the view. It's the best part.” He held down a hand and pulled John upright.

  John stood and clutched the chest-high white railing that separated him from a 500 foot freefall into the bridge traffic below. Cars pounded over a metal grating, rumbling loudly. The water below undulated in peaks of moonlight and valleys of wet shadow. His stomach flipped uneasily. Even though he'd just been soaring through open sky, somehow being stationary made him feel dizzy. He gripped the railing and closed his eyes. “I thought you were going to tell me—”

  “Look up.” Nomad pointed.

  Even in the dark, the landscape was amazing. The last trace of orange sunset splashed the west where John could just make out treetops and roof peaks. The water stretched on forever, a few boats dipping in the waves. The tangy, wet smell of lake water filled his nose. John shook his head. “Why'd you bring me all the way out here?”

  “I like it here,” Nomad said, draping his arms over the railing. He gazed out and sighed. “The boys upstairs are always, 'Go here. Do this.' This planet has so much beauty. Better than that cramped ship, I tell you what. Sometimes I just need a breather.”

  John turned to face him. “What's this about a ship?” The whole bridge vibrated beneath him, a steady shimmy that jangled his nerves.

  Nomad glanced at him, the moonlight darkening his features. “What's the rush? You got a hot date?” He smirked, ignoring John's frown, and gestured to the bridge below. “Mackinaw Island Bridge. Third longest suspension bridge in the world. Makes you think,” Nomad said, staring out at the rippling water, “if humans can make something like this, they gotta be good for something, right?”

  “The way you talk about them makes them seem like…idiots.” John wanted to say makes us seem like idiots, but he couldn't. Not anymore. That realization sat like a lead weight on his chest.

  Nomad shrugged. “They’ll be alright with our help.”

  “What do you mean?” John asked.

  “Don't you wonder why we're scouting? We're supposed to collect intel to help with the arrival of the rest of us.”

  John crinkled his brow. “Like an invasion?”

  Nomad shook his head. “Nah. Not like the kind of Attack of the Body Snatchers crap you have pumped into your head. No brain-sucking parasites. No War of the Worlds. We’ll come on down and drop in like old neighbors. Offer our help in exchange for a few things.”

  “Like what?” A car honked below making John grip the rail.

  “Like, that they stop mucking up the planet, polluting it, blowing it up, over-populating it. All that dumb shit they should've been doing in the first place. We’ll give them a little boost in technology, medical care, clean energy, and all they have to do is frickin’ recycle. And work with our government. Theirs could use a little 'tweaking'.” He used air quotes, smirking. Nomad pressed a salesman's smile on his face, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “It's a great trade, John.”

  John’s brain churned like a virus-riddled computer. He pres
sed his palms to his eyes. “But, where did we come from? What happened to our planet?”

  Nomad gripped the railing and stared out into the night. “Carth…got it bad. Mutant fungus infected the plant life, killing off a lot of the vegetation. There were mass animal die-offs. The air clogged with pollution. We had horrible temperature changes.” Nomad adopted a mock reporter's voice. “The planet became inhospitable.” He gave a weak smile and shifted back to normal. “So, we left. We’ve been living in space for a few generations now. We've tried a couple of planets with limited success, but now we think we've found a place to settle down.” A small smile spread on Nomad's face. A real smile. Maybe the first one John had seen. “It’s a great time for our people, John. You were pretty pumped about it a few days ago.”

  “So…” John said, staring up into the stars, “we're…aliens.”

  “To us, the humans are aliens. We're Carthians.”

  Nomad gripped John's shoulder. This time John didn't pull away. They stood there for a moment and John felt that tug of recognition again.

  Yet, all Nomad’s answers felt like a tangle of threads. None of this sounded as easy as Nomad made it out to be. An alien race telling humans how to live, what to do? Somehow he didn't see it going down so easily. “What happens if the humans say no?”

  Nomad stared across the shimmering lake. “They won’t.” He waggled his eyebrows. “We’re very convincing.”

  John thought about what it would mean for super-powered beings to crash land on earth. The humans would have no choice but to comply. Yet, if all of the beings were as peaceful as he felt, it would be against their nature to harm humans. Nomad, however, didn’t seem to share his love for humanity. His thoughts raced to the other creature who had crash-landed on earth. He could see its red slitted eyes in the dark even now.

  John stiffened. “What about the thing in the woods? The beast. Is that one of ours, too?”