Sanctuary: A dark urban fantasy (Shifter Chronicles Book 1)

by Amade, Melle

  “Why didn’t you get me?” I ask again as I step towards her. There’s a biting in my stomach that makes me think Mom knows more than she has ever told me.

  “Pick up the wood, Shae.” Mom points the axe at the strewn firewood.

  Henry’s already started. It’s automatic to do what she asks.

  “Not until you tell me why you are so hell bent on selling this house and getting out of Topanga and keeping me away from my friends,” I say. I’m terrified that she knows the truth about them. But, how could she know?

  “Pick up the wood.” Mom’s voice is low and cold, but I’m staring her down. This is too deep for me to just let go.

  “No,” I say. What’s she going to do? Chop me with the axe?

  “Everything I do is for your good,” she says.

  “I am sick and tired of everyone acting on my behalf for my good and no one telling me.” My words are insensible and loud. I’m too close. Ice exudes from Mom. I barely notice, I’m so frigid myself.

  “It’s my job to take care of you,” Mom says.

  “I can take care of myself,” I say.

  “Don’t talk back,” Mom scowls.

  “I’m not!” Frustration is pouring out of my skin. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”

  “Shae.” Henry’s voice is low as he tries to intercede.

  “But, it’s impossible!” I won’t let Henry derail me. “You only want to hear what you want to hear and you won’t let me even really talk to you and you most certainly won’t ever tell me what’s going on with you.”

  “It’s none of your business what’s going on with me.” Mom’s words are quiet as they push through the chill mantle of her anger. “It only matters that I know what’s going on with you. Now. Pick. Up. The. Wood.”

  “You can’t make me!” I spit the words at her desperate to throw off the shackles of her control. Mom’s hand twitches. Her eyes narrow.

  “Mom…” There’s worry in Henry’s voice. “She doesn’t mean it.”

  But, it’s too late. A glacier is descending over her and it’s my fault. Henry tries to step in front of me, but I can’t let him. I push him to the side and lift a piece of firewood to block Mom.

  But, I’m too slow.

  Mom’s hand cracks against my face. Stinging pain shoots across my skin and reverberates through my body. Tears throb in my eyes, but I blink them back and raise my arm to throw the firewood at her. She just stares me down, daring me to do it. I hate how she’s always in control. I propel my arm forward, but there’s resistance. Henry is pulling it to the side, his face looking up at me full of fear.

  Ice splinters down my back, my whole body sags. The firewood drops from my hand and rolls harmlessly through the dirt.

  Mom stands there, hair sticking out in all directions, face ghostly white with the glacier of rage encompassing her. She’s breathing in and out slowly and I know she’s trying to control it, trying to put it back in its place, trying to get some heat into her heart, some connection into her soul.

  She struggles so hard and lately, I know what that’s like. Only, I was able to get there a lot faster than her just now.

  For a second I see her the same way Dad does. So disconnected.

  And, I can’t help her. It’s not like she ever wants to be connected to me.

  She turns her back to me and guilt trickles into the cracks of my heart because my whole body relaxes. Small, warm fingers intertwine with mine.

  I take a deep breath and pull Henry into my arms. His face presses warm against my stomach and melts the ice that was descending there.

  I don’t want to be like Mom.

  12

  I hold Henry while he cries himself to sleep. Tonight he doesn’t even want me to read him a book. Mom didn’t come down to dinner and even though Dad and I tried to make the best of it, neither one of us was really up to it. I took Henry to my room and tried to read him some pages out of Beauty and the Beast, but he started crying and couldn’t stop. He finally cried himself out, snot dripping against my arm. The little snore he’s had since he was an infant resonating through his body. His hair is already damp from sweat. I brush it out of his eyes and kiss his forehead. He looks so vulnerable. I slide him over and prop his head on my pillow so he can rest easy.

  I’m too agitated to sleep.

  My throat is dry and scratchy; my shoulders carry a taut strain through them like a headache is coming on. I probably haven’t had enough water today.

  I slide myself out of bed and let the embers in the fireplace guide me down the darkened hallway. They look like demon eyes poking out of the gray pile of ash. Dad must have built a fire tonight. Wind rattles the house as branches brush a rough rhythm against the wood shingles. It’s hard to imagine walking down a different hallway. I’ve never known another house. As much as this place may be old and tattered, it’s my home.

  Dad’s standing at the kitchen sink staring out the window into the black night. His arms are folded against his chest. I knock a knuckle against the door jamb just so he knows I’m there. He immediately jumps to attention, arms unfolding, smile a mile wide as if he was just there waiting to help me.

  “Can I get you a warm glass of milk?” He asks.

  “I’m not a child, Dad.” I grab a glass from the cupboard and go to the tap.

  “Technically you are.” He reaches for the milk and pours some into a small pot.

  “I don’t feel like one,” I say.

  Dad looks at me sideways with a slight smile. “Cuppa warm milk will help that.”

  I shake my head. “I’m good with water, Dad, thanks.” He’s heating it up for my mom. After the day she’s had no doubt her ulcers are raging.

  “Suit yourself,” he says. “But, I’ve got hot cocoa to go with the warm milk.” He waves a brown container through the air, dancing it towards the heating pot.

  I can’t keep the smile off my face. I bet he’ll always see me as a six-year-old girl.

  “How’s she doing?” I ask.

  “She’ll be right.” Dad softly stirs the milk over the heat.

  “Do you think we’ll be able to get the house done?” I ask.

  “Topanga is prime real estate,” he says. “But, the house needs a lot of work. It’s going to take a lot longer than she thinks anywhere from two to six months is my best guess. Could be longer. We’ll probably lose these buyers.”

  My heart sinks, but I try to deflect the fear that is rising in my throat. How am I going to survive school for six months? I swill water around in my mouth for a second before I swallow. At least I don’t have to worry about my friends coming over.

  “Why doesn’t Mom like my friends?” The question just pops out. Dad keeps stirring the milk.

  “Your mum likes your friends just fine,” he says. “It’s just… well, you know she just has a hard time being around people. You know, with her mood swings and that.”

  “She told me today that she didn’t like any of my friends.” I stare into the darkness out the window and pour the water from my glass.

  “Don’t pay any attention to that,” Dad says. “She’s just stressed. How can anyone not like Zan?”

  The glass slips from my hand and breaks against the porcelain of the sink.

  “Shit!”

  “Never mind,” says Dad. “Just throw the pieces in the outside bin so your mum doesn’t see them.”

  “Why do you always support her?” I whirl my anger on him. “Why is it always about what she wants and needs? We all tiptoe around her just because she can’t control herself.”

  “She can control herself just fine,” he says. “I mean, yeah, I’ve seen her out of control. You don’t want to see that.”

  “She’s always checked out,” I say. “And when she’s around, we’re always on the edge of our seats waiting for her next mood swing.”

  “It’s a tricky time right now,” Dad says. “The process of moving is a big deal.”

  “But, she said the other day she always
meant to sell,” I say.

  “I don’t think she realized how much she loves the ol’ place. It’s harder than she thought. But, she’ll get it done. She’s strong like that. Look at the business she built.”

  I pick up the two halves of the glass out of the sink.

  “She’s just afraid to leave that room where she spends so much time,” I say. My heart shrinks a bit. I can’t believe I’m jealous of her room.

  Dad nods, “It’s her sanctuary.”

  I untwist the clamp from my heart. I’ll be leaving my sanctuary, too.

  “It doesn’t matter we need to go,” I say.

  He leans forward a bit, his head tilting to the side. “What’s got into you, Shae?”

  “Nothing,” I say. My back stiffens. “Um, I was just trying to find ways to support Mom.”

  “You can’t rush her,” Dad says. “Your mom is delicate.”

  Laughter bursts from my mouth. “She’s not delicate! You must have blinders on.”

  “Your mum appears hard as nails, but she’s fragile,” Dad says. “Can’t control herself. It makes her weak. It’s her life-long struggle to control her anger. Just let her go through her process.”

  “What about me? What about my process?” I know I’m whining but the words are bubbling up inside me, desperate for escape.

  “What you don’t realize,” Dad says, “is that everything your mom does is about you.”

  “About controlling me,” I say. “Why can’t she just sell the damn business and we can get out of here for good. We shouldn’t just be moving down the road we should be leaving the entire state. Going to the middle of nowhere where no one can find us.”

  Dad’s not listening to my rant. He looks at a dusty picture on the crowded desk. It’s Mom and him in New York’s Central Park. Dad’s taken off his huge coat and he’s got it and himself wrapped around Mom. He’s hunched over from the cold as snowflakes come down around them. But, he’s staring at her like she’s where the world begins and ends. I hope one day somebody looks at me like that.

  “You know what your mom was studying then?” He asks.

  “Yoga,” I say. “Under premier Yogi Bahrashnakolanaskiwhatshisface. I wrote the brochure, remember? With her bio in it.”

  He smiles. “Yeah. She started yoga right after she finished her MBA.”

  “Mom has a Master’s in Business?”

  “It’s her first love,” he says. “She’s always loved business. When I first met her she was working as a business development intern in some swanky engineering firm in New York. Her vision for her whole life was to climb the corporate ladder and one day be some big wig CEO of a transnational corporation, a corporation that could make a difference.”

  I think of Mom pulling a yoga warrior pose. “I guess she has the temperament for it,” I say.

  “No,” Dad smiles. “She got fired from every job she ever had. Your mom doesn’t play well with others. I guess that’s why I always feel special around her.”

  “She gets along fine with people,” I say. “She has a whole yoga community here.”

  “Yes, but it’s her yoga community. She doesn’t have to answer to the Board of Directors, to shareholders, to everyone like that. If she’s about to lose her temper, she can disappear pretty easily.”

  “That’s why she can’t leave her business,” I say.

  Dad cocks his head and gazes at me. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave? Has something happened?”

  I want to tell him so bad, but it’s so not okay to tell your dad something that can get him killed.

  “Boy trouble?” he probes.

  I shake my head vigorously.

  “No, Dad.” I fake a bright smile “I just think it’s a great opportunity to get a fresh start in a new place.”

  “Alright, Shae,” he says. “Girls need their secrets. Just don’t have too many of them, they’ll eat you up.” He glances up at the stairwell, steaming milk in Mom’s favorite ‘Easy does it’ mug. “Don’t forget to toss out the broken glass,” he says as he heads towards Mom.

  “Of course.” I head to the sliding glass door that leads to where the trash bin is. The old latch is dirty and locked. I fumble with it but the glass in my hand slips, its jagged corner presses into my palm. Pain shoots up my arm as the piece of glass bounces out of my hand and onto the magazine strewn desk. It takes me a minute to put the other pieces down and get the door open, but as I bend over to pull the door with all my weight, I see something odd sticking out from behind a stack of papers on the desk.

  I move the papers and pull the switch of the desk lamp.

  Like everything in our house it’s dusty, but this is a framed tile.

  I pull it from the wall. The wall paper behind it looks like it’s never seen the light of day. Bright green leaves pop out in the dim light.

  On the tile is painted a black shield with a white feather in the center of it.

  I pop it out of the frame and my fingers caress the edges. One of the corners is broken off. I frown and my mind churns.

  Van Arend Manor – the tile mosaic. A lord sits on a throne, while a subject kneels before him, bowing his head and kissing his foot. Crowds of people stand around the room witnessing the event.

  And around the edges were the other tiles, all the shields of all the families who have sworn fealty to the Van Arends.

  And, this tile looks like it would fit perfectly well into the large mosaic.

  “Rein weze vogelzang,” I murmur. “Rain is the Birdsong.”

  Dad is coming back down the stairs as I push into the hallway.

  “Thought we might watch something together.” He nods towards the TV and the remnants of the fire.

  “Sorry, Dad, not tonight.” I shake my head. “I’m tired. Going to bed.” I hurry down the hall to my room, but going to sleep is the last thing on my mind.

  13

  The blue moon casts pale shadows across Henry’s sleeping face. He hasn’t heard me come in the room and I’m sure he won’t hear me leave. It only takes me minutes to slide into a pair of jeans, slip through the window and start moving up the trail. The air is fresh and clear, my steps focused. They have to be. I’m headed straight into the lion’s den, or in this case, the Van Arend Manor. If I hesitate, I won’t find the courage to go through with this.

  The night of the wake I was focused on the painting of Prometheus having his liver ripped out by the eagle, but I saw that mosaic. The Van Arend crest and all those shields must represent the shifter families who have sworn fealty to the Van Arends. If that mosaic is true, then what of all the other paintings in that hall; Zeus as a swan, Noah’s ark, animals ripping apart humans, animals fighting animals… What if they are all true? What if they explain the story of the shifters? I grip the tile shoved deep in my pocket. And, what if, what if maybe, there is a clue that connects them to me? Why my mom is selling the house so suddenly?

  I pass the trail to the Sanctuary without even slowing down. My feet crunch out a steady rhythm on the twigs and leaves of the woods as I ponder different ways I’m going to get in the house. The terrace? A window? Scale the roof? There’s really only one way that makes sense.

  I’ll go in through the front door.

  I’ll act like a love struck girl trying to see Aiden. It’s not even that much of an act. And, I’m sure I won’t have any problem playing dumb tonight. I have so many unanswered questions. I’m ignorant; ignorant and daring.

  It’s probably a bad combination.

  At least I won’t have to worry about Vasquez. The last place he’ll think to find me is Van Arend Manor.

  The outer walls of the manor loom above me out of the dark. Layers of coastal fog shroud the manor like a mourning veil, leaving its spires hidden from view. The stone eagles glare down at me from the imposing gates, but tonight, they don’t frighten me. They quicken my blood. I’m acutely aware of the dangers behind this wall, and I’m drawn to it.

  As my steps crunch onto the gravel of their private drive, a
mountain lion roars in the distance. My blood aches with fear, but I keep walking steadily towards the gate. The mountain lion roars again. It’s definitely Vasquez, but he’s on the other side of the canyon. I exhale slowly. He’s nowhere near here. It’s taken me an hour to hike up from my house, but suddenly my plan seems a bit weak.

  I inhale fog.

  I didn’t come all this way just to slink back down the hill with my tail between my legs.

  To the side of the main iron gates is a small doorway for pedestrians. I can’t imagine many people walk up here, but, I grab the cool metal handle and it turns as if it’s regularly oiled. Guess Van Arend isn’t very worried about intruders on foot making off with any of his priceless paintings.

  My steps slow as I walk up to the front door. “You’re just some boy-crazy girl,” I mutter to myself. This story has to be foremost in my mind. As irrational as it seems that I’d sneak around here to be with my best friend’s boyfriend it’s shockingly more sensible than the truth that I am trying to enter a house that is owned by shape shifters who are sworn to kill me if they discover I know about them. A shiver of excitement runs up my spine. I’m not used to it, but I like it.

  I lift the large ornate knocker on the front door and let it fall heavily. It makes a dull thud in the darkness.

  “I’m here about a boy.” I remind myself, but nothing happens. No one comes. I just stand alone in the dark, foggy night outside the manor.

  I have no idea what I’m doing but my hand reaches up, twists the bronze knob and pushes the door open. Before I realize what I’ve done, my feet have brought me into the entry hall.

  I stand there for a moment, breathing. Making sure nothing is coming at me from the dark. But, the whole space is quiet and peaceful. The mosaic is just around the corner in the ballroom. In moments I’ve slid silently through the door and into the massive room.

  The somber, oppressive air of the wake is gone. The scent of pipe smoke and pine leaves wafts through the room and shafts of blue moonlight draw diagonal bands across floor and up the blood red walls. It’s a magnificent gallery.