by Aline Hunter
The only woman in the world he couldn’t exist without.
Mary.
The men thrashed as he neared but he didn’t hesitate. His pack mates surrounded him as he knelt in front of his first victim and grasped a handful of the man’s hair.
“I want to know where Elijah is.” He growled, revealing his lengthening canines, and grinned at the Shepherds’ corresponding, alarmed expression. “And you’re going to tell me.”
Chapter One
“Son of a bitch!” Mary Shepherd hissed and kneeled to rub the toe that had fallen victim to an eight-ounce can of French-cut green beans. She was pretty sure the tin container would leave one hell of a nasty bruise. Too bad Food Town didn’t have a policy when it came to situations like these. Unless she slipped on a newly mopped floor and broke her back, she wasn’t getting compensation for squat.
The pounding in her squished piggy became a dull ache and she stood, staring at the stacked boxes of cans next to her. Stocking shelves sucked. It meant working nights, so she never saw the sun. The pay was laughable, so she couldn’t afford Starbucks for a caffeine boost. And there was little to no interaction with her co-workers, so she was left to talk to herself. She glanced around and, as usual, no one was standing by to witness her accident. With that in mind, she reminded herself that no one was around to witness her making a fool of herself either.
Rotating in a circle reminiscent of Michael Jackson, she created a fake microphone with her hand and crooned, “Food Town. Always pay less so you can buy moooore.”
“Relaxing on the job, Ms. Stone?”
Oh crap.
So much for a lack of witnesses.
Mortification swept through her. She wanted to sink into the floor and die when she heard the reprimand in the store owner’s voice.
Lowering her hand, she spun around. “No sir. I was just…”
Just what? Making fun of his motto? Sticking it to the asshole in the only way I can? Acting like a total idiot because if I see one more can of vegetables I’m going to lose it?
“I was just stretching and keeping flexible.” She lifted her arms above her head and rose onto her toes. “Best to stay loose.”
Hermer Montrose lowered his head and glared at her over the rim of his glasses. She imagined it was the same look he gave to the great-grandchildren he complained about. Although he was as ancient as Rome and suffered from arthritis in both legs, he refused to hire someone else to do his job. He practically lived at Food Town.
Who are you kidding? He’ll die at the Food Town. It’s all the old codger has. They might as well put his plot in the cereal aisle, bury him here and erect a damn monument. Here lies Hermer Montrose: father, grandfather and asshole of epic proportions.
“Do you normally sing when you stretch, Ms. Stone?” he asked briskly and sniffed in distain. “Or were you just trying to…how did you put it…stay loose?”
Good one, you rat bastard, she seethed. Double innuendo for the win.
“That’s from too much American Idol,” she muttered, hoping he wouldn’t question the lie. “The singing sneaks up on me from time to time.”
“Well it’s obviously poison for the brain. In case no one has the heart to tell you, you can’t sing.” He lifted the clipboard he always carried to his face and glanced at it. No doubt going over the inventory she’d yet to put on the shelves. “I suggest you save such antics for your own time. When you’re here, you have a job to do.”
It was so tempting to grab a can and throw it at his face, but she reminded herself that her job was not only safe, it kept her off the radar. She didn’t have the luxury of telling the old fart to go to hell. Mr. Montrose liked to pay his second shift employees under the table so he didn’t have to worry about taxes. If she lost this job she’d have to start using the money she’d received from her dearly departed parents. To add insult to injury, she’d also have to find a new apartment, since she lived in the crap-ola building just behind Food Mart, owned by the ornery old coot. The damn place should have been condemned but she wasn’t complaining. Nothing beat the feeling of security. After surviving hell, she wasn’t willing to go back. Even if it meant her home consisted of walls with cracking paint, floor tiles that were missing and windows that were cracked.
Suck it up, Princess. Lose the quality lifestyle to which you’ve grown accustomed?
Inconceivable.
“Yes sir,” she said cheerily. She held her breath and said a prayer that her acting was better than her singing.
He huffed, turned on his heel and stormed off. She didn’t exhale until he vanished around the corner. Returning to work, she mulled over her dismal existence. Once she’d had dreams—of becoming a teacher, settling down, starting a family and having a house with a white picket fence—but reality wasn’t as enticing or shiny.
Not when you were related to people who wanted to kill you.
A shiver ran down her spine at the thought.
If her uncle found her, he’d force her to endure the atrocities he bestowed on the shifters he believed God had created him and his brethren to destroy. In Elijah Shepherd’s eyes she was nothing more than a loose end, someone to be cleansed of the taint of Lucifer’s creation before she achieved a safe passage to heaven. He’d attempted to bring her into his twisted fold, believing he could make her one of his flock. Her ability to act as if his plan had worked had allowed her an opportunity to escape—an escape that had been obtained in blood.
The memory of attacking the man who’d become her constant shadow—one of her uncle’s closest cousins—flashed in her mind. One focused swing and a kiss from a baseball bat sealed his fate. She’d known she’d have one chance to get away, one opportunity. Although she’d had no choice but to take full advantage when the time came, a part of her had hoped she wouldn’t have to kill in order to do it. Considering where she’d hit John, on the base of the skull—and seeing the white flash of bone after—she was pretty sure he’d never open his eyes again. He’d probably died as he bled out all over the carpet, never regaining consciousness.
It was him or someone innocent. Remember that.
She slammed cans on the shelf and didn’t bother making sure the labels were perfectly aligned. Killing John was horrible but it could have been worse. Elijah had made it clear he’d expected Mary to murder a young woman no older than herself—a young woman whose only crime was being born a shifter—to prove her loyalty and cement a place in the family. Ironically, his ultimatum had urged Mary to action. It had been John’s life or that of the shifter girl her uncle had trapped in his torture chamber. Given the choice of who lived or died, she’d have made the same decision.
Her heart lodged in her throat when she recalled Dara, the woman she’d rescued from certain death several weeks ago. Mary hadn’t expected to exchange names or information but the girl had been so close to the edge, almost at her breaking point. In an effort to soothe the shifter Mary had asked her name. As they’d driven Dara had told her about her capture and the things that had been done to her. Hearing of each atrocity was torture, making Mary’s stomach bunch into knots. If Dara hadn’t managed to get away, death would have been preferable. Shepherds always started with harmless physical torture, enough to inflict harm but not maim or cause permanent damage. It wasn’t until they learned a shifter wouldn’t break that they started removing body parts, gouging out eyes and taking things to the final stage.
She took a deep breath and slowly released it. None of that mattered now. She had money if she needed to run, and more importantly, the gift her parents had left for her. They’d wanted her to retrieve it before her twenty-first birthday to ensure she got out of her uncle’s control before too much damage had been done. The rite of passage to become a true Shepherd occurred when the children in the home reached full maturity—twenty-one, a Shepherd’s magic number. Her mother and father had given her all the information she needed to remain out of sight and hidden from the demented freaks who wanted her dead. The detailed map with a
heartbreaking note about her parents’ past, why they ran and why it was so important she do the same were a gift beyond measure. It told her what locations were dangerous, which places were safe and how to avoid Shepherd hotspots.
When you couldn’t destroy Shepherds, you hid from them. Period.
It was the only reason she’d chosen to reside on the border of Florida and Alabama. Of the numerous areas Shepherds resided, they avoided state lines. There was too much danger, too many risks. They thrived in rural areas where their practices remained hidden, needing isolation to ensure they wouldn’t be caught killing shifters who looked like normal men and women.
A surge of anger had her slamming a can down on the shelf. The entire ordeal pissed her off. After her mother and father had met, fallen in love and decided to marry, they’d had no choice but to run. Their decision had placed a target on their backs, something they’d never have been able to escape. Her parents had tried to avoid her father’s side of the family from the moment they said “I do” and embarked on a new life together. She remembered moving from place to place—an adventure, her mother used to say—only to do more of the same after a couple of months. Only recently did she learn the real reason her folks had been so determined to stay one step ahead of the killers they’d known were tracking them.
Her father hadn’t wanted to raise a family in the crazed lifestyle he’d been forced to experience as a child. Instead he’d chosen to take an enormous risk. The day he’d left his family, forsaking their ways, a bounty had been placed on his head. You didn’t abandon Shepherds. You lived by their rules or you died by them. Her mother had known everything about her father’s family, which meant she’d been in danger as well.
That thought brought even darker, more difficult memories to the surface.
Mary often wondered why her relatives had asked so many strange questions after her parents died. They hadn’t seem concerned about the fire that ravaged her home, the demise of her mother and father or the investigator’s suspicions that the blaze seemed to have been more than an accident. Instead they had wanted to know how much she knew about her distant family.
Had her mother and father told her about them? What church did she attend? Was she religious?
The questions had been strange, incredibly awkward and, in light of recent events, made perfect sense. Had her relatives discovered she’d known more than she should have, she might have joined her parents on the other side. When her uncle discovered she had no idea about his family or their beliefs, he’d brought her home and kept everything secret. For five years she’d had no idea of the atrocities taking place several yards away in a building that was carefully soundproofed. She had gone about her days as a normal girl.
Perhaps she should have noticed the odd sermons on Sundays. The way the pastor had remained fixated on the demons existing in the open, in plain sight.
Demons…
Her thoughts drifted to the man Elijah had proclaimed a demon, a person her uncle had stated was more beast than man. On the outside he had appeared normal—if you considered tall, dark and gorgeous normal. He was older than her by several years, and his confidence and easy manner had called to her in a way she’d never experienced before. Leaving home to attend college meant she was finally able to appreciate the opposite sex. For the longest time however, men had remained a mystery to her. Although she’d watched them, she’d never spoken to or approached her testosterone-fueled classmates. She was too shy, too uncertain. It wasn’t until she’d walked into the campus coffee shop that a man had approached her and changed her life forever.
Closing her eyes, she pictured his face.
Emory Veznor.
The first thing she’d noticed was his voice. The sound had been like coarse gravel over satin—deep and throaty but lush as velvet—as he’d touched her shoulder and murmured, “Excuse me.”
As she’d turned to address him, she’d gotten a full-on view of six-foot-plus model-material male. His dark hair was just long enough to wrap around his ears and drape across his forehead. The shadow along his jaw and chin matched, almost an ink black. And his eyes—the color of expensive whiskey shining through fine crystal—made her heart skip a beat. He was beautiful enough to grace a billboard, although his rough edges had made her think of motorcycles and leather.
At first she’d thought she’d misunderstood him. She’d seen his lips move, had known he was talking to her, but it had taken several seconds to realize he wasn’t asking her to step aside so he could retrieve his coffee. Instead he’d asked if she would like to share a table and chat. He had grinned when she didn’t answer—creating a fuzzy warmth in her tummy. She’d thought she was dreaming until he’d asked a second time and all she could do was nod.
The first guy to notice her had been one she would never have dreamt would be interested in someone like her. Dressed in her usual flowing skirt, matching shirt and Keds sneakers, she hadn’t compared to the man in snug jeans, black biker boots and chain that ran from his belt loop to the wallet in his back pocket. Her hair had been left loose that day and flowed down her back in a tangled mass of blonde, framing a makeup-free and totally natural face. Usually the combination worked for her but beside Emory she had looked like a windblown hood rat.
If he’d been aware of her insecurities, he hadn’t let on. When they had their java in hand, they’d traveled to a booth and sat across from each other. Within minutes a smooth, casual conversation had started. Emory had been polite, hanging on to every word that had passed her lips. She’d blushed at his intense stare, which seemed to slip past her face and into some deeper recess inside that she wasn’t aware of.
One conversation had led to another, then another, and finally resulted in a date—a date that had ruined her life and possibly ended his.
The thought that he might be dead hurt her in ways she didn’t want to ponder too deeply, but she couldn’t help herself.
Was Emory alive? Had he managed to make it out before her family destroyed him?
Humiliation and regret assailed her. She’d been too afraid of what Emory was to stick around and plead for his life. When she’d witnessed the claws that extended from his fingers and the way his face had changed shape, she’d screamed, backed away from him and then…
You ran. That’s what you did. Like a coward. And look what it got you. A drab life in a no-name town doing something you hate. If he’s not dead, he’ll detest you. He told you he had secrets, things he wasn’t ready to share. You were the one who wanted to know everything about him. The minute he showed you what he truly was, you lost it and turned your back on him.
She sighed and shook her head. Emory might have scared her—terrified her—but deep down some part of her had known he’d never hurt her. Each time she thought about the way she’d treated him when he’d changed before her eyes—the way she’d looked at him, the way she’d screamed in horror—she died a little on the inside.
During her time at the farm, when her uncle had tried to bring her into his sick and twisted flock of followers, she’d learned a lot about shifters. They’d watched her with curious stares, as if they could tell she wasn’t a threat. Her uncle had tormented them but she’d always looked away, unable to bring herself to watch. Determined to do something, she’d staged a plan to release the shifters who were captive in the large building on the back of the family property. Even after she’d set the shifters free they’d never touched her or displayed any sign of aggression. They’d simply took the gift for what it was, running for their lives.
Although one choice they’d made had meant she would suffer for their escape.
Forcing her into a cage and leaving her behind had been worse than if they’d beaten her within an inch of her life. Her uncle bestowed the punishment he felt his foolish niece deserved when he found out what she’d done. She’d never experienced true pain until Elijah took his pound of flesh as payment for her actions. She’d never imagined such agony was possible.
As she stretched t
o place a can in its proper place, she felt the tightness along her back, the way her skin fought to stretch but couldn’t quite do it. The cane Elijah had beaten her with had left several scars—all of them deep and requiring stitches. Some were so bad she could feel them when she moved, a constant reminder of what would happen if Elijah got his hands on her again. This time he wouldn’t leave scars.
He’d put her six feet under.
Trapped in her musings, she didn’t notice the box of canned corn at her feet until she tripped over it and landed on her ass. Biting back a curse, she rubbed her sore posterior.
Hello, floor, have we been properly introduced? No? Well, nice to meet you.
The night was quickly taking a downward turn.
A high-pitched chime echoed throughout the store, indicating a customer had walked inside Food Town. Mary frowned and glanced down the aisle. Store hours were from seven to seven. Everyone in the community knew that. Hermer was bad about forgetting to lock the doors after hours but it didn’t matter since people didn’t want to go toe-to-toe with the grumpy old man.
“We’re closed,” Hermer snapped in the distance. “You can come back during regular store hours.”
“Secure the exits,” a deep voice instructed, as if Hermer hadn’t spoken. “She’s in here somewhere.”
An odd poofing noise was immediately followed by another. Seconds passed and it sounded like someone was lowering something to the ground. Rolling until she was on her stomach, she placed her cheek against the cold concrete and peered through the thin gap between the last shelf and the floor. When she saw Hermer’s face with a bloody hole in the center of his forehead her world shattered into a million pieces. Standing within inches of her now dead boss were boots—Ropers—the brand of footwear Shepherds around the world idolized. The style varied but never the brand, and she’d seen enough of them to recognize the damn things on the spot.