Hoffman pressed his business card into her palm and snapped Charlene back into the present. “If there’s anything I can do for you, call me.”
She could only nod. Vision blurred, she searched a nearby table for a box of tissues. When she turned back to the line, an old man in a threadbare black suit, snow-white shirt, and a thin black tie shuffled up to Charlene and grasped her hand with his callus-hardened one. As she stared at geometric patterns on the large signet ring on the elder’s hand, the scent of apple pie laced with cinnamon wafted over her. For a moment, her shoulders lost their tension and she smiled. Her mother loves—loved—apple pie.
Taut skin, the color of beef jerky and deep creases in his forehead and cheeks gave the man the appearance of a puppet when he spoke. Only his ice-blue eyes and thick gray hair appeared to be human. “You don’t know me, but we’re kin.”
Apprehension tickled the back of her neck. Kin? Charlene mentally compared his face with her mother’s photo albums and came up empty. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Your name is…?”
“Jethro Carter. This is my wife, Rebekkah.”
An elderly woman with iron-gray hair pulled back into an impeccable bun stepped up to Charlene, gave her a slow once-over with piercing blue eyes, and nodded. “You’re a bit taller and your hair’s a little redder, but you’re hers, alright. You have her eyes.”
“Thank you.” When Charlene extended her hand, the old woman pulled her close and sniffed her neck.
Rebekkah stepped back. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “You even smell like her.”
What was that about?
The old woman glanced at Jethro and he nodded. Rebekkah reached into her pocket and retrieved a dark metal bracelet. “This was your mother’s. She would have wanted you to have it.” She slid the oddly heavy bangle onto Charlene’s wrist. “Wear it always.”
A fresh wave of grief hit, and Charlene could barely speak. “Thank you.”
Jethro cleared his throat. “And this is Zachariah Abingdon.”
Charlene expected to see someone the same age as Jethro and Rebekkah. She caught a whiff of soap and some unrecognizable musky spice and jumped, startled to find him standing at her elbow.
The younger man flipped shocks of silver hair away from his piercing blue eyes. A trail of heat blazed in her face, and ignited a fire in her core. He gazed down at her, an amused hint of a smile playing on his full, sensuous lips. “Call me Zack.”
When he spoke, she felt as if he had reached out and caressed her cheek. He took her hand, and a surge of energy jolted her. Did he feel that? Dry-mouthed, she squeaked, “Are we related?”
He smiled, showing beautiful white teeth. “Not that I know of. Is that a problem?”
Heat rushed up her neck, and she felt a blush blooming on her face. She looked down at his large hand still clasping hers. She didn’t want to let go. “No. Not at all.”
Jethro cleared his throat again, and Zack grinned at her, a sly look in his eyes as he slid his fingers away. She glanced down, half-expecting to see a visible red glow where his touch lingered on her skin in a trail of heat.
“We should let other people speak with you.” Jethro pressed an envelope into her hand. “There are no orphans among our people. You and Joey need to come home. We can help you take care of him in Eden.”
Goose bumps ran up her spine. How did he know about her brother? Eden. Her mother had warned her about that place. Who exactly are these people? She stared at the odd trio in their old-fashioned garb as they moved toward the memory table and whispered to each other. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone sounded pleased.
Pleased at what? She examined her new bangle. Feathery-scripted Js twined across the surface. Joanna.
As she puzzled over the dark metal, a dumpling of a woman lunged at Charlene and pulled her into a bear hug. The brassy-blonde reeked of cheap perfume, and her nose bore the signs of time spent with a bottle.
“I’m so sorry. This is such a tragedy.”
Charlene remembered meeting the woman at Joey’s school. She’d overheard her whispering to another parent, making a joke at her brother’s expense: “Doesn’t he remind you of Lon Chaney when he played Wolfman?” The gossip’s son attended school with Joey. Charlene liked her son, Todd. But the mother was a pain in the neck. What was her name? Did it begin with an N? M? “How’s Todd?”
“Oh, isn’t that just like you and your parents? Even in your hour of need, you ask about my son.” The woman clutched her hand in a sweaty grip and pulled her closer. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and the smell of alcohol layered over the cloud of cologne. “Will you be putting Joey in a home?”
Charlene slipped her hand out of the woman’s grasp. “Why would I do that?”
“Well, dear, the school is very expensive,” Todd’s mother continued in a condescending tone. “Trust me, I know. Now that your parents are gone, I don’t know how you’ll be able to afford it.”
“Thanks for your concern.” She remembered the woman’s name. “I assure you, Mrs. Morton, I have no intention of taking my brother out of our home.”
The woman huffed and moved to the memory table on unsteady feet.
Charlene scanned the crowd. Zack caught her gaze, and winked at her and turned away. A metal chain dangled out of his back pocket, much like one a biker would wear. He’s a bad boy. Her heart jittered. She forced herself to take a deep breath and chided herself for her instant and powerful attraction. Her brain chemicals were in hyper drive, nothing more. She recalled her mother’s warnings. He was from Eden. He couldn’t be good for her.
CHAPTER TWO
~*~
Death’s Hostage
Shortly after the last mourner shook her aching hand, Charlene sat on the edge of her seat in her family lawyer’s office and spoke between gritted teeth. “What do you mean, there’s no money?”
Will Rutler handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s the medical examiner’s final report. Cause of death: Suicide.”
“I don’t understand. They were happy, in love—”
“The police interviewed Dr. Hoffman and reviewed your father’s lab notes. Your dad was having trouble at work, depressed over his lack of progress in his research on Gorlin-Chaudry-Moss Syndrome.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t believe it. He was a scientist. He knew breakthroughs take time.”
Rutler looked down at his yellow legal pad and underlined something with his Montblanc pen. “The National Institutes of Health wouldn’t renew his grant—questions about the direction of his research.”
Her mind whirred with reasons to disbelieve the family lawyer and financial manager. She sensed another shoe mid-air. “What are you hiding from me, Mr. Rutler?”
He looked pained. “I think you have no choice but to place your brother in a group home.”
She leaped to her feet and the dark, book-lined room seemed to whirl and close in on her. “No. I won’t do that. It’s my job to take care of him. I have to do this myself.”
“Your father changed the policy less than a year ago, increasing the payoff to a million dollars in the event of his death.” He paused. “But, the insurance company won’t pay for a suicide.”
“I don’t believe he killed himself—and what? Murdered my mother, too? Never. He loved her, would have given his life for her—” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the weight of it all—the loss, the grief, the unknown—crashed onto her. She slumped into the red leather chair and buried her face in her hands. “What am I going to do?”
“Your mother had a modest insurance policy, fifty-thousand dollars. That will take care of the funeral, their credit card debt, and you and Joey for a while.” He slid a sheaf of papers across the desk to her. “Sign these, so I can take care of the bills.”
She gazed at the papers, and his voice became a murmur in the background to her thoughts. Rutler wasn’t being unkindly. It was his job—she knew that. He was trying to be helpful. He’d known her parents for o
ver twenty years, even been to dinner with them on many occasions. They’d been more than business acquaintances. They’d been friends. How could he believe her father would commit suicide and murder her mother?
“Charlene?”
She looked up and saw him gazing at her with a concerned expression.
“Sell the house. Put Joey in a state-supported group home. Finish your doctorate. You’re only twenty-four. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
“What kind of life will I have if I disown my brother? I’ll find a way, Mr. Rutler—even if I have to quit my PhD program and work three jobs. I will never, ever place my brother in a home.”
She stood. He opened his mouth to speak and she put her palm out. “I want a copy of the Medical Examiner’s report, and I want copies of all the photographs.”
“You shouldn’t do that to yourself. It’s too—too gruesome.”
She took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m a neurobiologist, Mr. Rutler. I spend my days and many nights dealing with blood and brains, stuff that makes most people queasy.”
He pursed his lips and shook his head.
“I need to see with my own eyes. I need to know what happened. I need closure. Please do as I ask.”
~*~
A month later, Charlene pulled into her gravel driveway with Joey in the converted minivan. She glanced in the rearview mirror, and smiled at her brother. “You need a shave and a haircut, Joey. Time to get my clippers out.” She made a buzzing sound, and he laughed and signed, “Moon, moon, moon.” How he loved the moon.
A dark sedan with tinted windows parked at the curb. Will Rutler climbed out of the car, his forehead creased with a frown. “I’ve been trying to reach you, but your phone’s been disconnected.”
“I just switched to a cell phone. It’s cheaper. I was going to call you.” Charlene gave him the number as she struggled to move the heavy wheelchair off the lift, her bracelet clanking against the chrome. Baltimore roasted in a surprise late April heat wave and sweat poured into her eyes.
Rutler strode to her side, his expensive citrus-scented cologne preceding him. “How are you? How’s Joey?”
She mopped her brother’s brow with a handkerchief. “We’re okay. I got a job at Joey’s school, and they trained me to be a bus driver. Between that, my school loans, and his scholarship for students with disabilities, I’m making ends meet.” She eyed Rutler. “But you didn’t come by to make small talk. What’s up?”
“I have bad news and good news.”
Her mouth went dry.
“You have the medical examiner’s report? The photos?”
He nodded and held up a bulky manila envelope.
She reached for it, but he pulled it away. “Not just yet.”
“Now what?”
“Your Aunt Jessie died. That’s the bad news. You inherited her farm. That’s the good news.”
“My mother’s older sister? I never met her, but Mom said she tried to get Aunt Jessie out of that place.” Eden. The little town her mother ran away from. “They used to be close.” Why didn’t she come to the visiting hours?
Rutler waved his hand in a sweeping gesture. “You can leave all this behind and become an apple farmer.”
“Yeah. Right. Just my style. This city girl who knows zip about gardening, much less farming, is not about to set foot in Eden to grow apples.” Besides, her mother warned her: Stay away from Eden. Nothing good happened there. Secrets within secrets within secrets, she said. Stay away.
Rutler frowned. “What do you want me to do?”
A surge of guilty relief at the prospect of paying off their bills washed over her. “Sell it. Get whatever you can. Maybe I’ll be able to finish my PhD after all.” She put her hand out. “I’ll take the envelope now.”
He hesitated a moment, then placed it in her palm. “Think twice before you open this. There are some things you’re better off not seeing—or knowing.”
As he pulled away from the curb, the weight of the envelope felt heavier. She turned it over, looked at the seal of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, and felt her resolve waver.
One foot in front of the other. Joey needed to be taken care of first.
“Okay, Joey, time for dinner, a little TV, then bedtime. And don’t you worry. We’re staying right here in Baltimore.”
No matter what she found out, no matter what she saw in that envelope, absolutely nothing and no one would ever convince her to uproot Joey and move to Eden.
CHAPTER THREE
~*~
The Hunger
Zachariah Abingdon closed the book of Kipling stories and sighed. The Mark of the Beast had been another disappointment. Half the horror authors in the world hadn’t a clue, he thought. Kipling got the bite right. But he was wrong about reversing the effect. Once bitten hard enough to draw blood, there was no going back. He laughed at the idea, stood, and growled at the stiffness in his back, an annoying reminder of his experience at the hands of drunken hunters. Breathalyzers should be required on rifles and shotguns. Might save a few more lives than just my sorry hide. Probably would have saved Jessie, too.
No. Her death—her murder—had been different. The Other People had stalked her like prey, cornered her alone near the highway, close to the perimeter of the pack’s territory—despite the No Trespassing signs posted all along the roads. More than one of those monsters had brutalized her. When he found what was left of her on his early morning run, he barely recognized her. The stench of the enemy’s blood mixed with her clean copper scent gave him grim satisfaction that she had put up a good fight and managed to injure one or more of them.
Sorrow squeezed at his chest. His friend, lost in a heinous act of revenge. Somehow, he had to right that wrong, find justice, peace, and protection from THEM, The Other People. That’s all the pack wanted. The Jinn’s revenge came with a price too high, the loss of a good woman, a friend, and his future mate’s aunt. When would it end? Never, unless something was done, something final. Otherwise, his intended mate could be the next victim.
“Charlene.” Speaking her name out loud made his skin ripple and his cock harden. He wanted—no—needed a mate. The call—strong and constant—urged him to settle down and have his own family with Charlene.
Even engulfed in grief at the loss of her parents, she’d been beautiful. The connection between them had been instantaneous, unmistakable. He’d wanted to take her right there in the middle of the funeral home, in front of everyone. She had wanted him, too. He had smelled her desire, felt the heat of her body flare when they touched. Thinking about her made every fiber of his body ache.
He closed his eyes and recalled her strong female scent, discernible even through the stifling odors of the funeral home. She threw off a heady blend of roses mixed with musk and the promise of passion. Her smoky blue eyes were hollow with grief, but clearly capable of joy. He’d wanted to run his fingers through her strawberry blonde hair, kiss her crushed berry lips, then her soft white neck, and her large breasts—poorly disguised beneath a demure dress. Thinking about her made him harder. Not satisfied by memories alone, he growled in frustration. When would he have her?
Just a few months ago, when Jessie had been alive, he’d visited the farmhouse, seen the family photos on the mantelpiece, and he knew the Old One was right. Charlene was The One. Jessie had been so proud of Charlene. What had she said? “She looks like Grace Kelly.” He had to agree. With that long, swan-like neck, upturned nose, and big blue eyes, she was a princess—and royalty in Eden.
When Charlene heard the news of her aunt’s death, he was confident she’d answer the call: Come home to Eden, to your people. Assume your rightful place in the pack. He smiled, anticipating the good news. Surely the Old One must have heard something by now. Tired of chasing his own tail, he decided to motor over to Jethro’s General Store and talk to the Old One.
~*~
“What do you mean, she said no?” The hair on Zack’s neck bristled and an unbidden growl roared out of hi
s throat. He paced back and forth, and dust flew into the air.
“She told her lawyer to sell the farm. She won’t take Joey out of his school.”
Zack pounded his fist on the wrought iron railing. “What kind of woman does that to her pack?”
Jethro sighed. “She doesn’t know.”
He stopped short and faced the Old One. “Doesn’t know?” He sagged against the porch in disbelief. “How could she not know?”
The Old One shook his head. “Her Momma was head-strong. Wouldn’t stay here, ran off after—Oblis died. Didn’t stay with our kind, she married a—a human. Charlene thinks her brother has some rare genetic disorder. Her human father was working on a cure—until he died.”
Zack gaped at the old man. “You never told me this before. I’ve been here five long years. Waiting for the perfect mate, my one and only. You told me it was her. Charlene. Now you’re telling me she doesn’t even know her birthright? How could you lie to me like this?”
“I didn’t lie to you. What does it matter that she wasn’t born a full-blooded werewolf?” Jethro fixed him with a hard stare.
“But—”
“What matters is loyalty to family, and that girl has it in spades. Not sure I can say the same for you.”
“You said—”
Who found your half-dead body when you were shot?”
Unable to maintain eye contact, Zack looked down. “You did.”
“Who gave you his own blood to bring you back to life?”
“You did.”
“Who gave you a family, a pack to belong to after yours was wiped out?”
“You did,” he whispered.
“Who swore to do anything—anything, because I saved your life and the pack took you in?”
Zack looked up, and saw the blue eyes of the old man deepen into green glowing orbs with sparks of orange. “I did.”
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