She’d thought this often as the winter wore on. Little by little, she realized that this God could not be. This God need not be. She could hide him from the world, keep him from knowing his heritage, keep him from claiming his thrones. It was time, Grace thought as she struggled to her feet. The child inside her, six months now, was growing fast, her time was growing near. She had to act.
She reached for her fur coat and wrapped it around her, her feet encased in flat leather boots laced above her calves, just under her knees. Her hounds were outside, one on each side of the door. They hated it here – they were hellhounds. They belonged in the warmth of the underworld.
“I need you to fetch Hawes,” she said to them as she stood in the doorway. “I’m unwell. The birth might be too soon.”
“We can’t leave you, my Grace,” Epitah said. He was her favourite of the pair. Articulate, smart. If he had fingers, he could play chess with her. He called her ‘my Grace’, always. Not understanding that Grace was her name, not her title. Or maybe he did. The other, Odigar, rarely spoke, but was solicitous nonetheless. She hated lying to them. When Hawes learned of her deception he would surely destroy these two for falling for it. It was Machiavellian of her, but three worlds were at stake and so a few must die to save many.
“If you don’t fetch Hawes and I die or this child dies, Hawes will surely kill you.”
“I could get Cordea or Mersin.” Epitah offered.
Grace shook her head. “They’re old and the cold is making their bones brittle. Neither will be of much use if I go into labour. And do you not think that Hawes will wish to be here for the birth of his child?” She held her hand to her stomach and let out a groan, as if a pain had struck her.
Both hounds backed away from her, tails between their legs.
“If we leave –” Epitah argued, but Grace shushed him.
“You are here to guard my well-being. There are no threats to me except this imminent birth.”
Odigar nodded. He understood. “We need to get Master Hawes.” He nudged Epitah, then turned and bounded away. Epitah threw her a last look of concern, confusion, perhaps suspicion. But he followed the path Odigar had forged.
Once Grace was sure they were gone, she stepped outside and closed the door firmly behind her. She didn’t look back as she plunged into the forest. There was no nostalgia, nothing she would miss. Her body would miss Hawes, but that would pass. She’d find a new lover. She made her way easily through the trees, her feet deft and sure on the snow-packed earth.
She’d learned the forest since the Hunter’s Blood Moon. On the pretence of walking to keep her strong, she and her two guards walked often, almost daily. On one of their walks, they found the clearing where her would-be rapists had died. Nothing left of them but a few bones. Scavenged, eaten. What they deserved, she thought bitterly. But there were still tangible signs, the skull from one of them, dried blood on the tree that had impaled another. Her guards recognized the death of humans. Epitah said as much.
She stood there now. This had been as far as she’d wandered with the hounds. She didn’t want them to know about Eric or the camp. So now, in late March, she had to gather her bearings, try to retrace her steps. If the camp was still there, then she could flee in Eric’s SUV. As long the keys were still where Eric left them. As long as it started.
It took hours to find the camp, even with her heightened senses, because the traitorous snow obscured the trail. She was frantic when she finally stumbled upon it. The hellhounds would have talked to Hawes by now. He would know she was gone. He would follow her trail and find her. Panic was making her clumsy and stupid. She had to move quickly.
Like the bikers’ remains, Eric’s body was nothing but a pile of bone and bits of fabric. She choked on a sob, swallowed it. Crying could come later. The camp was as it was in October, untouched. The SUV parked off to the side. A tent – just one, caved in on itself now, but the keys would be there. She remembered Eric telling her that he put them in the pocket of the tent. Told her not to forget or they’d be stuck here forever. She’d laughed and felt a ripple of satisfaction when he said, “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
Her heart thudded in her chest as she crawled into the tent. She was so close now. So close to freedom. The keys were still in the pocket, freezing her fingers as she grabbed them. The SUV unlocked. Why not? Who was there to steal from them in this isolated wilderness. She slid into the seat and her trembling fingers fumbled the key into the ignition. Nothing happened when she turned the key. The battery was dead. She tried several times, her stomach dropping to her toes. The baby kicked.
That was it then. Two plans, the first failed. The second one could not. She touched her hand to her womb and whispered softly. “I’m sorry, child.” She slid out of the SUV and trudged away. Not in the direction from which she came, but west, uphill. Towards the setting sun. There was little time now and she started running as fast as her girth would allow. She knew where she was going, what she needed to do. And her hearing, sharpened now, picked up the sounds of pursuit. Hawes would be on her in minutes. But she was close. She could make it.
Then she was there, the trees opening up for her, a clearing and a cliff. She approached the edge at a dead run and then stopped and turned around as Hawes burst into the clearing. In wolf form. He stopped too, his eyes shocked as he saw her teetering on the ledge. “What are you doing, Grace?” Heat and ice stoked his voice – anger and fear. He was in a crouch, his body taut, ready to leap.
“We can’t allow this to happen, Hawes. I can’t let this happen. It’s wrong to make a God.” She stepped closer to the edge, loose rocks and dirt crumbling under her feet. She swayed. Hawes leapt and wrapped his arms around her, but it was too late. They were falling.
They landed hard, 20 feet below, on a solid bed of rock. But Hawes cushioned Grace in his arms, his wolf absorbing most of the impact. They lay stunned as Hawes shifted to human form grateful to be alive, grateful they were both alive. In that moment he forgot about the child in her womb. The boy was secondary to Grace’s life. In that moment of almost losing his mate, he knew love and understood Grace’s fear of the future.
Epilogue
The child played near the hearth. It was a cool night. October, the night of the Hunter’s Moon. His toy was a train, which he ran along the carpet. He made soft little choo-choo noises as he played. Hawes watched from the couch, his lips curving indulgently. Each time he laid eyes on the miracle in front of him, his heart swelled. The boy was like his mother, had her beauty, had her softness and had… well… had her grace.
To think he almost lost them both four years ago. What would his life be without Grace, without this child? She came close to death the night she leapt from the cliff, from the premature labour, from loss of blood. Cordea and Mersin saved her and the child. She fought to live and he was glad for it. He never left her side, and when she opened her eyes, he cried. It was the first time his tears fell, and they seemed foreign and awkward, but he couldn’t hold them back, his heart was so full.
He handed her the baby, so small and fragile and she held him in her arms, cradled him to her breast. Hawes watched as her eyes softened then moistened. Her hands trembled as she tugged at the little fingers that curled into fists. She kissed the child’s head, then looked to Hawes. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered, then the tears fell. He held her while she sobbed, held them both, his strong arms circling them, infusing his strength into them. His family, his world.
The child rallied quickly. He had the blood of the wolf and hellhound in him. The boy’s growth and good health gave Grace the strength she needed to gain her own recovery, but the difficult birth rendered her unable to conceive again. Despite Hawes’ love, his forgiveness, she couldn’t let go of what she almost did, what she could no longer give him. It showed in everything she did and said, to Hawes, to the boy. Every day was a challenge for her, to be better than the day before. To be a better mate, a mother, a lover.
He moved them
out of the forest, into the city, for the sake of them all. He freed Nordil to rule the underworld in his absence, recruited Edon, the wolf he almost killed that first day, to lead his pack. His obligation was to his family, to his son. He carried the unbearable weight of responsibility to raise the boy well, ensure he grew into a good man so that when he stepped into the role as leader of the three realms, he would rule benevolently.
Grace came into the living room then, carrying cocoa and crackers, placing them on the coffee table, then curling up in Hawes’ arms. He pulled her to him, kissing the top of her head and licking the shell of her ear, a promise of what was to be after the boy was asleep. She giggled and tucked her body into his embrace. Enough to make him rigid, enough to make her wet. He could smell her readiness and had to restrain himself from fondling her.
“Little one,” Grace called softly.
The boy looked up at his mother, his dark eyes studying her. “Time for bed?” he asked as if he knew the intent of his parents.
“Not quite. Come have a drink of cocoa and a cracker.”
He walked over to his parents, climbed onto his mother’s lap and wrapped his arms around her waist, clinging to her. “I love you, mama,” His eyes stroked her face and she hugged him to her as Hawes squeezed them both.
Then they separated, the boy kneeling on the carpet so he could sip at his drink. “Tell me again how I was born?”
Hawes lips tugged downward. The child never tired of the story and each retelling made Grace weep. The boy always listened intently, his eyes glued to his father’s face as Hawes told him of the day his mother and father fell off a cliff to the rocks below. How Hawes cushioned Grace’s body to save her life. How the fall had caused premature labour and the child was born three months too soon. It was a blessing,” Hawes always finished the telling of it. “To have you in my arms and my heart earlier than I expected.”
The boy listened closely, his sharp intelligent eyes roaming between his mother and father as Hawes spoke. He took a last drink of his chocolate and crawled up into his father’s lap. “Papa, I have this dream about my birth. Someone trying to kill me.”
Hawes stared down at him. The child, the boy, the product of the prophecy. What should he tell him? What did he need to know? That his mother threw herself over a cliff with the intentions of killing herself and the boy. That Hawes saved her life even as she begged him to end it. That she was distraught when she woke, horrified at what she almost did and Hawes forgave her because she gave him something he had not known before. She gave him love.
Finally, he said, “Fate kept you safe and alive, in the care and love of your parents.”
The boy narrowed his eyes. “Why?” His voice was like Hawes’, strong, emphatic, challenging.
“Because that’s what fate does.”
The boy stilled for a minute, his eyes clouding as he thought. Then he smiled at his father, love, adoration, reverence. “So fate is my friend and protects me from those who lie to me, those who try to kill me.”
Hawes smiled back as he ran a soft hand down the child’s round cheek. “And me, son. I would kill anyone who tries to harm you.”
The boy nodded, extracted himself from Hawes’ arms and walked back to the hearth, sitting beside his train, holding it in his hands. “Then why does she still live?” he asked softly, so softly.
The End
Also by Jasmin Quinn
Other books by Jasmin Quinn (Available on Amazon)
Running With the Devil Series
The Darkest Hour (Book 1)
Secrets inside Her (Book 2)
Black Surrender (Book 3)
Without Mercy (Book 4)
Hard Lessons (Book 5) (Release Date: October 25, 2018)
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Masked
Copyright © N. Heinz, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Authorized for use in The Horror of Our Love Anthology, 2018
Playlist
Sinking Inside Yourself, Hammock
It's Ok, You're Ok, Bonjr
A White Demon Love Song, The Killers
Nothing Compares 2 U, Sinéad O'Connor
Creepy old Music box, When Memories Break
Sh Boom Life Could Be A Dream, The Coasters
Acknowledments
Masked is loosely based on The Phantom of the Opera with a mixture of 90’s horror movies, and more than a few references to pop-cultural themes.
Thank you to my fellow authors who participated in this project: Dee, Bonny, Nikita, and Jas! We had such a fun time dreaming up our stories and laughing along the way. It’s been an honor to work with you all!
Thank you to my readers, your support means everything! I love each and every one of you!
Thank you to my family and everyone who has encouraged me along the way!
“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”
― André Malraux
Great Basin College, Nevada
September 4th, 1990
“Ms. Vale, is it?” a rough voice asks as I try to take my seat without notice.
Life can be a dream, sweetheart.
My first day of college and I’m late, that silly song playing in my head again. “Yes, sorry, professor…” I trail off as I’m met with the most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
Hello, hello again.
Lost for words, all I can do is stare at the man before me. Black hair hangs just before his shoulders like obsidian silk. But it’s those eyes that transfix me, haunt me even, right where I stand. And then, lastly, when he turns I notice the oddest thing…half of his face is covered in a black mask. He picks up on the moment, a slight snarl forming around his teeth. “You may call me…” he stops, and I don’t miss how his fist tightens in anger. “I’m Mr. Winchester, now, please take your seat.” His eyes flash to the window. “Today we’ll be discussing human behavior, take out your notebooks.”
Unzipping my bag, I attempt to pull out a notebook and pen, but before that can happen my elbow knocks my plastic cup of coffee over. The tan liquid bleeds into the white linoleum floor, and I rush to stand up.
Mr. Winchester has already crossed the room, causing me to jump in surprise. “Shall I add clumsiness along with tardiness to your dizzying attributes, Ms. Vale?” He hands me a few napkins, his thumb lingering on the pulse at my wrist.
A chill runs down my spine at his boldness. “Thank you, sir,” I apologize shakily. “I’m sorry, it was an accident.”
“Accidents are always unfortunate,” he says darkly, leaning in. “What do you think, Ms. Vale?”
There’s an odd glint in his eyes, and his true meaning isn’t lost on me. “No, and to think that way is a bit cynical if you ask me,” I fire back, suddenly feeling hostile. I mean, who is he to make that kind of judgement on a person he’s just met? It’s obvious he’s used to people judging him along with whatever might be hidden under that mask.
His lip curls in apparent displeasure. “Clean up this mess,” he orders, briskly walking away and back to his desk.
Even if he is a mega asshole; I can’t help but admire his beautiful, mysterious face.
A thing of dark beauty.
After cleaning the stickiness off the floo
r, I finally take my seat. It’s then that I realize I’ve garnered some interest and more than a few stares. Instead of letting it bother me, I assume my initial task and pull out a notebook. I’ve been waiting too long to get into this college to let something like this break my spirit.
“Hey, I’m Jesse,” the guy beside me whispers, and I immediately notice his black flannel and hazel eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Hannah,” I whisper back, biting my lip in nervousness.
He smirks. “Nice to meet you, Hannah Vale.”
“This isn’t tea time, Ms. Vale,” Mr. Winchester snaps from his desk. “Be quiet or get out.” His eyes are even bluer when he’s pissed.
“Sorry, Mr. Winchester,” Jesse mumbles under his breath, sitting back in his chair. “It’s my fault.”
Feeling somewhat embarrassed at being called out for a second time on my first day, I remain silent. Gazing down at my notebook, I feel my face heat to scorching levels. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my pen and prepare to take notes, but when I glance up Mr. Winchester is staring directly into my eyes.
What did I do to make him so mad?
The fire in his eyes is intimidating yet baseless. Being late is one thing, but it shouldn’t warrant this kind of reaction. Maybe tardiness really, really ticks him off. I need to remember that for the future, so I can avoid this kind of altercation. I came to this school to learn, after all, not to squabble with my teacher.
“Attention staff and students,” a nasally female voice says over the intercom, startling the classroom. “There’s a tornado warning in effect until five this evening, all classes are canceled for the rest of the day.” The intercom pops and then crackles.
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