The Price of Knowing: A Powers of Influence Novel (The Powers of Influence Book 2)

by C. B. Haight

  He understood his senses had been muted, diminished, until now. He sniffed the air and realized Rowena’s scent seemed different too— stronger, sweeter maybe. Jarrett could also smell something else. An odd, tangy flavored aroma floated around her. The instinct in his animal-like mind recognized it as the smell of fear. Regardless of how calm she sounded, she was afraid, afraid of him.

  Her fear of him made Jarrett fight harder for control, and yet fear rushed through him as well. He did not understand this irrevocable change from boy to demon. He could not understand the deep, pressing need to run through the forest, nor his sudden unexplained anger.

  She stayed with him the whole night trying to calm him with soft lullabies. Not once, but twice Rowena bravely tried reaching out to him tenderly. She wanted to give him any comfort she could offer.

  Deep in his heart Jarrett wanted her comforting and motherly contact, but for unknown reasons, he snapped at her both times, baring his sharp teeth and snarling. While his child-like mind screamed for him to trust her, every instinct within the animal tingled. The enmity between man and beast came as natural as the need to breathe.

  He cowered in the corner, and she could only sit, cautiously watching him. After long hours, the night finally passed. The sunlight began peeking over the hills, allowing the soft, grey light to peek in through the windows. His body painfully betrayed him once more, this time shifting and twisting him back into a frightened young boy.

  Beyond exhausted, and beaten down by the painful changes, Jarrett passed out halfway through his morning transformation.

  Grateful he survived the night, Rowena never left his side. She gently lifted Jarrett’s unconscious, naked body back onto his straw mattress and tucked the blankets around him to ward away the chill morning air. Then she waited while he slept. She stroked his shaggy black hair away from his face and hummed lightly, trying to ease his troubled dreams.

  Though he slept, he sensed her there, and in his unconscious thoughts, Jarrett heard her soft prayers that his change would not always inflict so much pain upon him. Watching him endure so much was unbearable. She prayed she had done as well as Lyndell would have if she had been here. Most of all, Rowena prayed Jarrett could cope with the truth when he awoke.

  But he didn’t. That afternoon when Jarrett’s eyes opened, and before the foggy cloud of sleep cleared away, she embraced him fiercely and cried with relief. She bustled around and got bread and butter, hoping he could finally eat. As he ate his bread in quick, hungry bites, Rowena tried to explain.

  She did her very best to explain his parentage. She told him of the great sacrifice his real mother made all those years ago and of his twin brother whom he would never meet. Her tale was so sordid and horrific his twelve-year-old mind refused to believe her. He protested her words as lies, yelling and fighting against her. His experience the night before mattered little that day, and because of fear, Jarrett denied the truth.

  The next night when he did not change, he convinced himself it was nothing more than a dream, a fever induced hallucination. She must be wrong, he thought. Werewolves are no more than tales to frighten children. “It is not real!” he insisted aloud.

  He went on in denial for weeks. Until it happened all over again the next month—the sickness, the excruciating pain, the change from boy to wolf.

  Even worse, something else began to happen. After the third change, an unexplained excitement coursed through his veins. Jarrett could not contain the urges that burned through him. He ran from Rowena and their home howling into the darkness. He leaped and bounded through the woods, and the speed at which his new form could run created a thrill that pumped through his heart. As he ran, he easily lost track of his worried human thoughts and fears. He embraced the wolf and the sensations that were part of it becoming a young hunter of the night.

  The air was filled with the scent of prey around him, and he felt the urge to chase, to kill. Catching a rabbit, he tore into its flesh and consumed the animal raw. The fresh warm meat, the crunch of small bones, and the salty tang of blood in his mouth felt right, good even. The next morning, the violent memory of what he’d done made him ill, and he despised what he was becoming.

  By the fourth month, Jarrett could feel the differences in his human body as well. He grew taller than anyone his age. Broader too, boasting sharpened and defined muscles on every part of his body. He got faster, stronger. His senses were much keener. His temper became shorter.

  Anger at his circumstance clouded his thoughts. He could never go back to being the clueless boy he’d been before. He could barely tolerate the company of boys his own age, or company of any kind for that matter. He became reclusive and avoided contact with people entirely.

  He felt his animal urges consistently, not only on the nights of a full moon. As each day drew nearer to that fateful night, he could sense it, feel it. As the moon cycled each month, and each day passed, he had a harder time controlling his urge to change. His body wanted to bring forth the monster, and while the pain of doing so was becoming more bearable, it was increasingly difficult to subdue his volatile nature.

  Even though she didn’t voice it to him, Jarrett could see the fear on Rowena’s face. She knew they would have to leave and told him as much by explaining that people were becoming much too suspicious. She made prompt plans to leave their home, but things exploded before they could get away.

  Four days before the next full moon, Rowena and Jarrett went into town to trade for goods they would need to make their impromptu trip. He knew she risked having him with her because she needed help carrying their stores. While crossing the center of town square, Jarrett’s sensitive ears pricked. “Witch whore,” a man whispered as she passed.

  His short fuse ignited like dry brush to flame. Fiery anger burned through him. Jarrett turned sharply on the speaker, and an animalistic growl rumbled past his lips.

  Rowena’s hand went to her mouth in fear. She closed her eyes slowly, hoping no one noticed his slip. They had. His growl was so primal and unnatural that people murmured and whispered while a brave few moved closer to verify what was seen.

  “Demon eyes! The boy has the eyes of a demon!” a woman cried out in fear.

  “He is possessed!” another woman shouted.

  Rowena turned, dropped her goods, and moved to calm Jarrett with soft, quiet words. She hoped to defuse the tenuous situation. To her dismay, it only made things worse. As Jarrett straightened his boyish frame at her words, another woman in the crowd cried out, “Tis true. She’s a witch. She controls the beast with her powers!”

  The town preacher came forth. “She has summoned a demon from the darkest chasms of Hell!”

  Shocked commotion rippled through the small crowd. More people moved in as the whispers spread from one person to the next. The buzzing crowd, closing in on them, only fed Jarrett’s uncontrollable urges for violence. With little hope left, Rowena tried to pull Jarrett away and run, but strong hands seized her harshly.

  As the brutal hands grabbed her and pulled her away from him, Jarrett struggled fiercely to control his urge to kill. All that existed for him in that moment was a red haze of rage.

  The mob began shouting for her to burn and die, cries escalating quickly. They threw her to the ground. Rocks and sticks flew from hate filled fists. The projectiles battered against them both, but Jarrett was past feeling any of it.

  One rock smacked Rowena on her head above her brow, cutting it open. She couldn’t hold back her cry of pain, and she looked to him with tears in her soft eyes. Even through the chaos Jarrett could tell she believed that this was the end for them. He felt the burn as his own eyes began to change and smolder once more. Only this time, it was no flicker of light that dissipated. They glowed with eager violence. The demon they believed him to be was surfacing.

  “No!” she cried out pleadingly. “Jarrett, no! I’m fine!”

  Despite being a young boy, it took two strong men to hold him fast. He snarled and snapped. His eyes glowed, frigh
tening any who looked upon them. The noise in the crowd shifted from accusation and judgment to cries of fear and shock.

  Jarrett knew his actions were making matters worse. He could not find the strength of will to rein in his temper. Despite what anyone there believed, he tried desperately to make it stop. Deep within, the boy behind the monster cried out, wanting to stop the beast that was taking over. He knew the entire crowd was about to discover the monster he harbored within.

  His skin tingled. His bones burned. He could feel the change coming. He never yet changed on any night other than that of the full moon, much less the middle of the day, but he could feel it coming.

  “Jarrett!” Rowena cried out to him. He jerked his rage-filled expression in her direction.

  With ragged breathing, he looked at her and saw her sad, pleading eyes beg him silently to find control. He tried. Heaven knows he tried. The boy continued screaming from within, wanting it to stop, but that voice never came from his lips. Instead, an audible snarl came forth. He felt his muscles quiver as the beginnings of the change rippled through him. Even in his hazed state he knew she didn’t want this for him, but there was no judgment in her eyes only acceptance. He wasn’t yet strong enough to make it stop, and they both knew it.

  Taking a risk, Rowena chanted softly, trying to use her craft to cast a spell of sleep to calm him. A burly man jerked Rowena up violently when he heard her soft words. “There’ll be no callin’ your demon to save ye,” he told her snidely. The snapping motion of his violent shaking broke her concentration, and along with it, the final threads of the fragile control for which Jarrett struggled so fiercely.

  He was beyond caring about anything other than Rowena. The animal instinct to kill and protect rushed through him.

  He lunged forward with unnatural strength, ripping free of his captors. Jarrett felt the prickling of the fur underneath his skin, and he felt the saliva build in his mouth where he knew long, sharp teeth would grow soon.

  He almost made it to her before four men toppled him. They took turns kicking and battering him. All of them screamed and yelled while they beat him into unconsciousness, unknowingly keeping him from fully making the change that would ensure his immediate death—or more likely, theirs.

  Chapter 2

  New York, NY

  “Jarrett!” the soft, urging female whisper that kept haunting his dreams of late called for him to wake.

  The dark images of the dream turned off as if someone had flipped a switch. Jarrett’s eyes snapped open. His heart rapped hard against his chest. The memories of the past were raw and fresh in his mind. They pressed down on him heavily, but he knew that wasn’t what woke him.

  Acting on instinct and using his lightning-fast reflexes, Jarrett rolled to the left, spun off the bed, landed easily on his feet, and crouched to face his attacker. He barely missed being skewered through the heart by a long, wicked dagger. The sleek, shiny blade glinted in the dim moonlight as its wielder lifted it from the mattress where he had lain a second before.

  His preternatural eyes penetrated the shadows of his room, and he looked down the length of the blade to see who his assassin was. On the opposite side of his bed stood a tall, thin woman. A thick floral odor permeated his senses as soon as she entered his room. Her sickly sweet odor and the soft dreamy whisper in his memories became his saving grace. He drew in the scent of her again and smelled a hint of other. She was not all human as she appeared.

  Demon. The woman was definitely part demon.

  Demons carried a specific fungal-like scent that was unmistakable, even if it was diluted. Half-demons were common enough in his world and often easily dealt with. In fact, most humans dealt with them every day without realizing it. More often than not, they looked completely normal.

  Then again, so did he. But death could often look normal until it came knocking on your door.

  His sensitive eyes assessed his would-be assassin. The woman’s spiked, blond hair looked white in the dim light and matched her pale, almost translucent, skin perfectly. Her ears boasted several small hoops and studs, beginning at her lobes and climbing their way up to the elfin like tips. She wore a long, shiny, white jacket over a tight, low-cut, green dress that left little to the imagination. The picture wasn’t a good one. Years of tapping into the dark side of magic drained her body of its beauty long ago and left her skin withered and her eyes cold. If misused, magic could drain the body much like drugs. He had seen the look before.

  Jarrett rolled his eyes at his circumstance. He knew she was one of The Faction's mindless lackeys. She was the first in what would likely be a long line of them. He’d run out of time.

  Looking into his animalistic eyes with her cold, grayish orbs and holding the wicked blade she had almost killed him with, they considered each other.

  He’d heard of her before. They were in the same business of bounty hunting for The Faction, but Jarrett couldn’t recall her name. Not that it really mattered. Her name was as unimportant to him as she was.

  Her thin, angular eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. “You are good. I guess I’ll have to earn my money tonight.” Her voice was low and throaty from too many cigarettes over the years. “You’re not bad looking either. Too bad.”

  “How’d you get lucky enough to draw the short straw?” he questioned, his tone almost amused.

  She tilted her head. “Draw?” she chortled. “There was no need to draw. We’ve all been called out for you. Such is the consequence of betrayal. Although, I‘m glad I got here first.”

  Jarrett shrugged. Her words didn’t tell him anything that he didn’t already know. Using The Faction’s commonly used mantra, first come, first served, to suit him, Jarrett replied, “First to come, first to die. The order of who dies hardly matters to me.”

  Her brows drew together angrily, and her mouth pinched into a tight slit. She spun the intricate dagger around with proficient ease as she considered his words with less care than she probably should have.

  “Tell me,” she questioned as if genuinely curious, “in the interest of self-preservation, what did you do to have him calling us all out to take you down?”

  “Don’t worry, you won‘t live long enough to be able to make the same mistake.” Moving swiftly, he leaped over the large bed that separated them only to meet empty space.

  Jarrett didn’t bother to scan the darkened room with his superior sight. He identified where she was right away. Not only could he smell her pungent perfume, but his hunter’s instincts were with him. He could feel her and sense her nervousness

  She stood in the back corner of his sparsely furnished room. He immediately knew she was using magic to enhance her speed. Otherwise she would already be dead in his grasp. Her cold gray eyes stared back at him with a lifelessness he’d seen often. It happened to all who lived like her, on the hard edge of life with The Faction.

  He didn’t rush her though. Jarrett knew how to play this game. In fact, he was an expert. He had learned over the many years of his life that patience was the key. In life or in battle, Jarrett never made any moves unless it brought purpose to his own designs.

  He also knew, people The Faction recruited always made mistakes. Whether through stupidity, overconfidence, or greed, the reasoning didn’t matter. It was these mistakes that he, as the Hunter, capitalized on—costing many their very lives.

  He held his position in the middle of his room and waited patiently for the witch's blunder. He adjusted his neck to display his annoyance. “If you leave, I might let you live,” he rasped in a low voice that promised death.

  She shrank back slightly from him. His deadly orbs penetrated the darkness with an eerie and unsettling glow. The moonlight clung to the bare skin of his muscled chest and glinted off a green gem that hung from his neck. The sight of him was disarming. The moonlight that shone on his form welcomed him within the night’s dark embrace as if it existed solely for him.

  Shaking off the eerie mood, she reminded herself that she had dealt with killer
s and fighters her whole life. Her skills were unsurpassed—evident in the fact that she was still alive today. Straightening her shoulders, she sauntered forward a couple of steps on her spiked, high-heeled boots. The sound of her heels clicking on the polished wooden floor beneath her echoed ominously through the silence.

  She gave Jarrett a coy look, then spoke low trying to make her words sound sultry, “Sweetie, I’ve played with many of your kind before and lived to tell the tale. You‘ll be no different.”

  As Jarrett predicted she would, the witch made her first mistake. She assumed him to be like any other bounty. He arched one of his dark brows.

  “Did you come to kill me, or did you come to talk me to death?”

  Something about the way Jarrett stood there, completely relaxed, gazing steadily at her, made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Suddenly, she realized this man wouldn’t be like any of her past assignments. His corded muscles weren’t even tense in the slightest. He didn’t look ready for battle. His easy tone and relaxed demeanor hinted at his comfort level with the current situation.

  “Who are you?” she uttered, not even realizing she said the words out loud. She took a cautious step back, squinting in slight confusion.

  Jarrett grinned devilishly. His excited eyes flickered red. He knew she may no longer be so glad she got here first. Mistake number two, he thought. Hesitation. Jarrett understood that knowing your opponent was really the first rule of hunting. Rule two, make your play and complete your kill. Hesitation was a death sentence.

  It was all he needed. Really, one mistake was enough. Two, of course, was better.

  Using the witch’s ignorance and new-found fear against her, Jarrett made his move. His body flew forward. He held the half-demon witch in his grasp before she could even blink her eyes. Barely any sound was made as he whipped her around with unnatural strength, forcing her against his body.