Werewolves of Shade (Part Four) (Beautiful Immortals Series Book 4)
Page 1
Werewolves of Shade
(Beautiful Immortals Series)
Part Four
BY
Tim O’Rourke
First Edition Published by Ravenwoodgreys
Copyright 2015 by Tim O’Rourke
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Story Editor
Lynda O’Rourke
Book cover designed by:
Tom O’Rourke
Copyedited by:
Carolyn M. Pinard
www.cjpinard.com
For Patrick
More books by Tim O’Rourke
Kiera Hudson Series One
Vampire Shift (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 1
Vampire Wake (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 2
Vampire Hunt (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 3
Vampire Breed (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 4
Wolf House (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 5
Vampire Hollows (Kiera Hudson Series 1) Book 6
Kiera Hudson Series Two
Dead Flesh (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 1
Dead Night (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 2
Dead Angels (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 3
Dead Statues (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 4
Dead Seth (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 5
Dead Wolf (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 6
Dead Water (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 7
Dead Push (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 8
Dead Lost (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 9
Dead End (Kiera Hudson Series 2) Book 10
Kiera Hudson Series Three
The Creeping Men (Kiera Hudson Series Three) Book 1
The Lethal Infected (Kiera Hudson Series Three) Book 2
The Adoring Artist (Kiera Hudson Series Three) Book 3
The Secret Identity (Kiera Hudson Series Three) Book 4
Werewolves of Shade
Werewolves of Shade (Part One)
Werewolves of Shade (Part Two)
Werewolves of Shade (Part Three)
Werewolves of Shade (Part Four)
Werewolves of Shade (Part Five)
Werewolves of Shade (Part Six)
Moon Trilogy
Moonlight (Moon Trilogy) Book 1
Moonbeam (Moon Trilogy) Book 2
Moonshine (Moon Trilogy) Book 3
The Jack Seth Novellas
Hollow Pit (Book One)
Seeking Cara (Book Two) Coming Soon!
Black Hill Farm (Books 1 & 2)
Black Hill Farm (Book 1)
Black Hill Farm: Andy’s Diary (Book 2)
Sydney Hart Novels
Witch (A Sydney Hart Novel) Book 1
Yellow (A Sydney Hart Novel) Book 2
The Doorways Saga
Doorways (Doorways Saga Book 1)
The League of Doorways (Doorways Saga Book 2)
The Queen of Doorways (Doorways Saga Book 3)
The Tessa Dark Trilogy
Stilts (Book 1)
Zip (Book 2)
The Mechanic
The Mechanic
The Dark Side of Nightfall
Book One
Unscathed
Written by Tim O’Rourke & C.J. Pinard
You can contact Tim O’Rourke at
www.kierahudson.com or by email at kierahudson91@aol.com
Werewolves of Shade
(Part Four)
This story is set in a where and when not too dissimilar to our own…
Chapter One
“Annabel?” I gasped, placing one hand to my mouth. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to remind her that she was meant to be dead! Dead! Dead! Dead! But she wasn’t. Annabel looked very much alive as she sat and swung slowly back and forth in the rain. It ran down her very pale face and through her stringy black hair. Her feet were bare like they had been before when I’d spied her from the window of my home. But had it really been the other way around? Had Annabel been spying on me?
“Annabel?” I whispered, taking a step backwards, my whole body reeling with shock and confusion. How could she be alive? There had been a funeral. I had seen it take place. Calix had made sure that I’d seen it. He had wanted me to see the grieving villagers as they made their way single file from the graveyard. Calix had wanted to remind me of the screw-up I was. He had wanted to remind me that I hadn’t pulled out the gun my Uncle Sidney had entrusted to me and shot dead the creature that had dragged Annabel into the woods and torn out her throat.
But Annabel’s throat didn’t look torn out. And as I screwed up my eyes and peered through the driving rain at her, I could see that her neck looked unblemished. There wasn’t any bloody bite mark – not even a scratch.
“I’m not Annabel,” the girl said, her face breaking into a sly-looking smile.
“Yes, you are,” I breathed, both hands to my face now. What was she saying? What was going on in Shade? “You look exactly like her.”
“I’m her twin – identical twin,” the girl said, still smiling at me through the rain as she rocked slowly back and forth on the swing. Puddles had formed beneath it and she dragged her toes through the dirty brown water. “My name is Clarabel.”
“Annabel? Clarabel?” I said, shaking my head, feeling as if I were suddenly drunk. “No one told me Annabel had a… no one told me you had a twin”
“Did you ask?” she said, sounding older than the eight or nine years that she appeared to be.
“Why weren’t you in class yesterday morning?” I asked, my mind desperately searching for questions to prove that this wasn’t any twin of Annabel’s. And what if I proved Annabel didn’t have a twin? Who and what then was the little girl swaying back and forth on the swing before me?
“I was sick,” came her quick and confident reply. Maybe she was Annabel’s twin? Although they did look identical, this little girl seemed different somehow. She had a confidence about her that the other hadn’t had. Annabel had appeared timid – she had spoken in little more than a whisper.
“How do you know my name if we haven’t met before?” I asked her, still seeking out holes in her story.
“Everyone is talking about you – everyone in Shade is,” she said.
I could clearly remember how the villagers stopped and stared at me in some trance-like state every time I appeared in that street which led to the alleyway. Just thinking about them standing stock still like statues, eyes wide, mouths open, and dressed all in black made me shiver with dread. “Why is everyone talking about me?” I mustered up the nerve to ask.
“Because you killed my sister – you killed Annabel,” she said, her smile now fading as her dark eyes met mine.
“Is that what everyone thinks?” I gasped. “I didn’t kill your sister. I went after her – I tried to save her.”
“You had a gun, didn’t you?” Clarabel said, dropping from the swing, her feet disappearing into the puddles. “You could have shot the creature that killed my…”
“It didn’t happen
like that… It’s not how you think…” I said, my mind scrambling for the right words. But how could I ever explain to this young girl that her sister’s death was not of my doing, when all the adults in Shade obviously believed that it was my fault? Calix thought it was my fault. Screw what Calix thought. Why did my mind keep returning to him? What did it matter what Calix thought of me? Because he had in some way got beneath my skin. He had wormed his way beneath my flesh and into my head. He had taken me up into that field so I had a bird’s eye view of the mourners at the graveside of the little girl who had died because I hadn’t fired my gun. But did Rush and Rea blame me? I didn’t think so. Rea had let me stay and Rush had wanted me to, even though it had probably been my fault that both Rush and Calix had got into a fight. But had it really been my fault any more than Annabel’s death? Wasn’t I flagellating myself too much? I’d tried to warn the others that I had seen a wolf more than once in Shade. But I hadn’t told them about the wolf – the wolf that could only ever be described as a werewolf – sitting at the end of my garden path each night. Perhaps I should have. But I hadn’t because I feared that I’d be disbelieved and treated like a simple-minded fool by Calix. Perhaps if I’d been stronger in my own personal convictions about what I had seen, then I wouldn’t have given a care about what Calix would’ve said or thought about me and I would have told everyone about the werewolf I knew I had seen – the werewolf that I still believed had killed Annabel. But even as we’d come across the little girl’s mutilated body in the woods, they had still refused to believe that a werewolf had been responsible for Annabel’s death. What more evidence did Rea, Rush, and Calix need? They had said some other kind of creature had killed the girl – but what creature? And where was it now? They were meant to be the keepers of the peace in Shade. Calix was always swaggering around with his guns in his hands. So why wasn’t he out in the woods tracking down the creature that had killed Annabel instead of spending all his time pointing the finger of blame at me? Because he’d punched his brother, Rush, in the face, then snuck off to lick his emotional wounds. Pathetic!
I watched Clarabel, if that’s who she really was, brush past me as she headed back across the park.
“Wait!” I called after her. “We need to talk. I need to tell you what really happened. Where are you going?”
“Home,” the little girl said without looking back over her shoulder at me.
Home, I thought to myself, fighting the urge to run from Shade, climb back into my uncle’s truck, and head back to Maze. The thought of falling into the safety of Flint’s arms and to forget all about Shade was suddenly overwhelming. I wanted to forget about Rea, Calix, and Rush and the kiss I’d shared with him. I didn’t know if I could bear to stay and take the blame for the death of that child. But what was I running back to? The safety of Maze, my Uncle Sidney’s house, and Flint’s arms. How long would I allow myself to cower there – too frightened to venture out into the world? If I couldn’t do it for me, then I had to do it for my parents. Didn’t they deserve that much at least? Hadn’t they been brave enough to venture beyond Maze? But their bravery got them killed. They had come to Shade. They had either gone missing here, or worse, died here. I had come this far and I couldn’t – wouldn’t – leave Shade. Not until I knew the truth. Because I knew deep down that if I left now – I would live to regret it. Not only because I would let myself and parents down, but because I’d let the likes of Calix and the rest of the villagers in Shade believe that I was in some way responsible for Annabel’s death. I wasn’t responsible and intended to make sure everyone knew that.
Taking a deep breath, I started across the park after Clarabel. “Hey, wait for me,” I called out. “I want to speak with your parents.”
Hearing this, Clarabel stopped dead in her tracks. She turned to face me, arms by her sides, white dress clinging to her with rain. “I don’t think that is such a good idea,” she said, as I drew level with her.
“Why not?” I asked.
“My father is very mad at you for what you did,” she said, mouth turned down as if she was now suddenly close to tears.
“I didn’t do anything,” I told her. “Now show me where you live.”
Without saying anything more, Clarabel turned and set off back across the park.
Chapter Two
We walked in silence, the only sound was the rain splashing up off the cobbled streets and sloshing along the gutters. Clarabel stayed a few paces ahead of me. She walked with her head down, like an errant child that was being marched home to their parents’ house by someone in authority. I could remember such a thing happening to me as a child. I must’ve been a few years older than Clarabel was now – perhaps twelve or thirteen. Flint and I had come across some derelict house on the outskirts of Maze. We had been searching for some new place to make a camp away from the other children. We had grown to prefer our own company than that of the other children who had lived in Maze. There wasn’t anything of any value in the house, just some overturned furniture and a disused mattress that the people who had once lived there before the war had left behind or fled from when the Beautiful Immortals had come. We had therefore climbed through a broken back window and out into a small yard. It was overgrown with weeds, but hidden behind them and on the outskirts of a meadow that stretched away into the distance was what looked like a small outhouse. It was too big to be called a shed, but not big enough to be called a cottage. A summerhouse, perhaps?
“There,” Flint had said, blue eyes beaming full of mischief. “That place will make a great den.”
“If we can reach it,” I’d said, starting to pull back the knots of thick brambles that barred our way.
“Sure we can reach it,” Flint had said undeterred. Taking off his T-shirt, he had wrapped it about his fists. Wearing his makeshift gloves, Flint had grabbed a fistful of the wild brambles and had started to yank them back. When his progress had become slow, he had looked back at me. “Take your top off, Mila,” he’d said. “Make some gloves like me and lend a hand.”
“I’m not taking my top off,” I’d scowled back at him. What little breasts I had at the time weren’t covered with a bra underneath my top, and I hadn’t wanted Flint to see me like that. I think we had kissed once or twice before, but nothing more at that point – although I think we both knew why we were looking for such a remote place to hide and be away from the other children. I’d looked about the old yard and seen a piece of old tarpaulin sticking up from beneath some old bricks and rubble. Bending at the knees, I’d yanked the piece of tarpaulin out. It was old and frayed at the edges, which had made it easy for me to tear into strips. I had wrapped these about my hands, but not so tight that I couldn’t move my fingers. When I was done, I’d reached out, closing my fists around the coarse brambles that prevented us from reaching the old outhouse.
It must have taken Flint and I the best part of an hour to reach the building. The day had been hot, and by the time we both stood panting before the old house, sweat was running down my back between my shoulder blades and my long hair had been plastered to the sides of my face and brow. And despite the fact that we had both covered our hands, we had a crisscross pattern of scratches all over our arms. Some of the scratches were deeper than others. One of them had bled a thin line of blood that trickled down toward my wrist.
“We made it,” Flint had gasped, arming sweat from his brow.
As we’d stood in the hot summer sun and removed the coverings from our hands, we looked up at the house we had uncovered. It was made of brick and the roof of black slate. There was no chimney that I could see and the windows were covered with thick pieces of wood. And even though the sun was up and I could hear the gentle rush of the breeze in the lush green grass that covered the meadow, the sight of the house had made my skin turn cold. There was something – I hadn’t known quite what – but it had made the hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end like needles. The old outhouse, although small and squat, gave off a feeling of foreboding. It was like
there had been a voice suddenly screaming in my head for me to run and run and never look back.
“I think we should go,” I’d whispered at Flint, unable to take my eyes from off the black iron door to the old outhouse.
“Seriously?” he’d asked. “After it took so long to reach it?”
“I don’t like it,” I’d said, stepping away back in the direction of the way we had come.
“Don’t be such a girl,” Flint had teased, heading toward the door. “It’s just an old house. It will be perfect for us…”
“No, stop!” I’d said, watching Flint reach for the door.
But I’d been too late. Flint had closed his fist around the door handle and had yanked it open. And as it had creaked ajar, a waft of dust and dirt had shot from the opening and up into the sky like a dark rain-swollen cloud. But there had been another sound, too. It was as if a scream had escaped from the old outhouse as Flint had pulled open the door. It was like it had been locked in there for a hundred years or more – trapped like a scream in the back of someone’s throat that was fighting to be heard.
“I really think we should go…” I’d said, inching backwards further still.
“What the fuck?” Flint had breathed, staring around the edge of the open doorway and into the old house.
“What’s in there?” I’d asked, screwing my eyes half shut, heart starting to race.
“Come and take a look,” Flint had said, staring back over his shoulder at me, eyes dark and wide.
“Are there rats?” I’d gasped, shivering all over at the sudden thought of bristling black bodies and long grey tails. “I hate rats.”
“There are no rats,” Flint had said, turning to look back around the edge of the door. “It’s way more fucked-up than rats.” Without waiting for me, he’d stepped into the darkness on the other side of the doorway.