by T. S. Joyce
She couldn’t stand it anymore, hiding in the shadows when down to her marrow she felt like her life was being blasted out of a canon. She couldn’t leave Joseph. Leaving Joseph meant leaving Bron, and the thought was simply beyond her.
“What did you do?” she asked as she stepped into the living room.
Dad started and turned. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough. Who did you hurt?” Samantha’s eyes were wide and she felt like she had swallowed jagged ice.
A pounding sounded at the door and Momma shrieked.
“Open up, it’s the police.”
Dad turned a somber gaze to Momma and kissed her cheeks, her forehead, and lingered on her lips. “I love you, Charlene. No matter what, I’ll always love you.”
Then he strode past where Samantha was hovered and hesitated with his hand on the door. With an agonized look over his shoulder at her, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Tommy Young?” an officer asked as soon as Dad opened the door.
“Yes.”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Daniel Cress.”
“No,” Samantha said in horror. “No!” she screamed as Momma caught her. “You son of a bitch! Why?”
Mr. Cress was dead and there was no discernable reason why Dad would do such a vile thing. That was Bron’s father’s blood on her daddy’s arms. The same arms he’d used to lift her up as a baby. The same arms that had tucked her in at night until she was twelve. The same arms that hugged her after report cards came in.
She was going to be sick.
“Momma, why?” she wailed as the sheriff and his two deputies dragged Dad off to a waiting police cruiser. Lights blared red and blue, casting the house in an eerie glow.
Momma was sobbing, and between hiccups, she said, “He had to, honey. He just felt he had to.”
Dad had never liked Bron, or her relationship with him, but that was no reason to kill someone. Maybe this was some desperate move to break her and Bron apart. Surely he couldn’t love her still if she was family to the murderer of his father.
Bron. Bron’s father was dead.
Struggling from Momma’s grasp, she snatched the keys from the table and rushed to the old station wagon parked in the driveway. Pulling through the yard and around the police car where they were lowering Dad’s head into it, she sped down the two streets that separated her and Bron’s house.
More patrol cars were parked every which way around his small home, and yellow tape was being put up around the woods out back. Trent and Bron sat on the front porch, talking to an officer, Trent with his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking like he was crying, and Bron looking stoically ahead and answering questions.
She froze in the yard, afraid to approach and see the hatred that would surely be there in his eyes.
Bron turned slowly, but the hatred wasn’t there. Only deep sadness and pain. He stood and ignored a question the officer asked. Stepping from the porch as if he was on autopilot, he didn’t slow down as he approached.
Running, she threw herself into him, and he caught her and squeezed until her ribs felt like they would break.
“I’m sorry he did this. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she chanted, wishing her words could take away some of Bron’s pain.
He buried his face in the hollow between her shoulder and throat, but he wasn’t crying. He never cried. It wasn’t his way to show emotion like that. Instead, he asked against her neck, “Are you okay?”
What? Of course she wasn’t okay. Dad was a murderer and her life was breaking apart like shards of splintering bone. Everyone in town would hate her. But tonight wasn’t about the destruction her father had caused to her life. It was about Bron, because his mom packed up and left years ago, and now his daddy was dead. And she couldn’t help but feel it was her fault somehow.
“Are you?” she asked, easing back and cupping his face.
The grim emptiness in his eyes was answer enough.
He might never be okay again.
She’d gone so long despising Dad for ruining everything, for the guilt that she had carried that she somehow should’ve known how messed up he was and stopped him. Momma had held onto the belief that Dad was still a good man, but no matter what she said to convince Samantha, she couldn’t erase the memories of his arms drenched in another man’s blood.
College hadn’t been an option after Momma got sick, and Dad was rotting away behind bars while Samantha watched her only remaining family wither away to nothing.
He hadn’t been there because of his violent decision.
She’d cursed him when Momma had called out his name at the end. He’d chosen not to be present in their lives, and she’d never known why. Maybe she never would.
Unless he felt like explaining what really happened tomorrow at visitation, she could go to her grave wondering why her soft-spoken father decided to turn killer on a man she’d eaten Sunday dinner with for as long as she’d been able to remember.
Samantha sighed miserably. Everything was so messed up, and it all seemed to revolve around her lifelong bond with Bron.
Maybe that was it.
Perhaps her relationship with him wasn’t the natural order for her life. How could it be? He wasn’t even human. And everything around them had gone so wrong as they cleaved onto each other tighter.
And then Bron had been the first to give into fate by marrying Muriel, while her stubborn heart threw a joyous middle finger at destiny and made it impossible to find a normal man, or even a normal relationship.
She’d been motionless for six years, like some prehistoric animal frozen into a glacier.
She should run as far away from Bron and his people as she could and never look back. It was important to her survival that she find a life somewhere else.
But the thought of never seeing him again, even after realizing what he was, slashed jagged pain through her middle until she curled in on herself on the threadbare hotel room comforter.
With either decision, she lost something vital.
****
Inhaling deeply, Samantha looked up at the ceiling tiles as she stood like a star and got patted down by a handsy guard with coffee breath and sour disposition written all over his face.
“Turn around,” he clipped out.
She did and, “Oh!” Her backside got a firm grab, both cheeks. A metal wand that made little clicking noises was brushed up and down her, and she was herded with the other prison visitors to a waiting room with several tables.
The prison wasn’t a big one, and altogether there were twelve people visiting inmates today. Samantha sank onto a bench seat and scanned the room. She’d only been here one time with Momma when Dad was first assigned here after the trial, and after that, she’d refused to come. It looked just like she remembered it. White walls, white tile floors that squeaked under her shoes, metal tables and seats. Cold and lonely and she wished she had thought to bring a jacket to ward off the chill this place induced.
Her hands shook like they always did when she was nervous, so she clenched them and frowned at the clock incased in a miniature prison of bars. It was five ’til one, and the fluttering nerves in her stomach were beginning to make her feel queasy.
At a table nearby, a woman with dark hair and matching lipstick tried to quiet a squalling baby, and on the other side was an elderly couple, probably there to visit their son. This place was all filled up with sad stories.
She wasn’t the only one who’d had a rough go of it. The crying child beside her might very well grow up without a father, and the parents beside her probably had such hopes for their boy when he was a child.
Inmates filed in and sat across from their loved ones. Hugging wasn’t allowed, and she stood when she saw the man who vaguely resembled Dad. His hair was completely streaked with gray now, and deep wrinkles etched into his face. An intricate tattoo snaked up his neck, and his thin lips curved up in a tentative smile when he saw her.
“Nice ink,” she sai
d, sitting down as he took the seat across from her.
“Got it when your mom died. My roommate did it for me before he got out. I have a new roommate now.” The glint of happiness he had worn when he’d seen her drained away. “He’s not as nice.” Clasping his hands in front of him on the table, he leveled her a look. “I told you to leave Joseph.”
“How did you know I was there in the first place?”
His expression became hard, and she could see him closing down completely. He reminded her of Bron with all of his carefully guarded secrets. Ridiculous men.
“I know, so cut the shit with me, Dad.”
Shooting a warning glance at the guard who stood in the doorway of the room, he leaned forward and murmured, “Know what?”
Canting her head, she tried to still the fury that was surging through her. She was so damned tired of everyone keeping everything from her. Inhaling through her nose, she exhaled a steadying breath and licked her lips. “Bear.”
Dad made a clicking sound and shook his head like he was disgusted. “Bron promised. You were supposed to have a normal life and go on to find someone who suited you.”
“Except I couldn’t, because I didn’t know how much danger I was in. You knew back then, didn’t you?” She straightened her spine and glared at him, his amber-colored eyes older, masculine versions of hers. “Dad, I swore I would die before I asked you again, but I have to know. What happened with Mr. Cress that night? And don’t bullshit me and give me some other mystery to solve. Just be straight with me. For once, I just need someone to tell me the truth.”
“He was going to kill you, Sam,” Dad whispered. “Bron was next in line to lead, and his daddy didn’t want you in the way. Bron told me Daniel’s plans because he didn’t know what else to do. I tried to reason with Daniel that night. I told him I’d take you away and we’d never come back, but he said you and Bron had bonded as good as a mated pair and you two would find your way back to each other, no matter what I did.” His breath hitched and he leaned back. “So I killed him. That was the choice I made to keep you safe, and I’d do it again to see you like this. Strong and grown up. And smart as a whip, like you were from a little baby. Screw Daniel Cress and what you thought you knew about him. He was going to hurt you, and I would die ten times over before I let that happen.”
Her face crumpled and she looked down as twin tears fled to her cheeks and made pit-pat sounds on the cold metal table. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” she asked in a broken whisper.
“Because you’d defend me. You would bring too much attention to this and out every last one of Bron’s people, and most of them aren’t bad people. They’re trying to make it just like everybody else, and Joseph is their last safe haven. I murdered a man. Doesn’t matter the reason, I’m accepting my consequences. And hopefully in a few years, I’ll get out and visit your momma’s grave and maybe see if you have time for a dinner date with your old man. It won’t be the life I had, but it’ll be something, and it’ll be worth it because you are alive. I know what splitting up has done to you and Bron. I can see it when he comes to visit me, and your momma said you acted the same before she passed. I used to love her like that—like you two love each other.” His voice cracked on the last word and he cleared his throat and blinked rapidly. “I know how hard this must be, and I’m sorry it has to be this way, but there are rules. You can’t be together. You just have to find a way to move on.”
“And if I can’t?” Her weak words came out quiet and airy as her throat tightened around her emotions.
“You have to. You’re a survivor. It’s in your blood.”
“One minute,” the guard at the door called out.
“Sam, there’s a journal in the house. It’ll explain the things I can’t here. Under the carpet in my old closet, there is a loose floorboard. Pull it up and it’ll make up for all the things I hid from you. It’ll tell you where you come from.”
“Time,” said the guard, and the other inmates rose from their seats.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry,” Dad said as a tear tracked down his cheek. Roughly, he thumbed it away and walked out with the others. He looked back just as he disappeared behind the door, and his hard look was back in place again.
Chapter Thirteen
Samantha gripped the steering wheel in a steely grasp that hurt her knuckles. The rain was relentless as she leaned forward and tried to keep her car in the right lane. The lines were barely visible.
Everything she’d thought had been wrong, and now her entire life was turned upside down. She’d spent so much energy hating a man who’d sacrificed everything he had to save her life. And for no other reason than he was her dad, and he loved her.
Joseph looked like a ghost town, probably due to the torrential downpour, and she passed just one other car on the road. It was an old classic car with rust on the fender.
In her driveway, she wrestled her suitcase out of the trunk, then ran for the door. The temptation to see Bron again was great, but her need to find out what Dad was talking about outweighed it by ounces. If she saw him now, he’d clam up on her, and it would hurt, and she needed to be at her strongest if she was going to sift through the mysteries her father had bestowed upon her today.
The light switch didn’t work, and when she looked out the window, none of the other houses had lights on either. Power must be out in this part of the grid.
Clicking on her multi-tool light, she peeled off her soaking wet jacket and strode to her parents old room in the back of the house. Her boots made hollow sounds against the floorboards, which looked to be newly stained. Work hadn’t ceased in her absence, which meant Bron and Dillon were just fine after the battle. She knew Reese was okay because when Samantha clicked on her cell phone this afternoon, she had four missed calls from her, and a voicemail checking to see if she was okay.
Was she okay? She just found out werebears existed. That answer was hell no.
In the closet, she pointed the tiny flashlight in one corner, then the other, and wiggled her finger under a frayed carpet edge. Pulling harder, she yanked it back to reveal dusty wooden floors. Scrabbling against the edges, she dislodged a plank and pulled an ancient looking leather-bound journal from its depths.
A folded piece of paper fell out, and she sat against the wall and unfolded it.
Dear Sam,
If you’ve found this, it means something has happened to me which prevents me from telling you about the culture you were born into. Traditionally, the sons and daughters in our lineage have been told about their responsibilities on their twenty-first birthdays, but the custom has been lost over the years as the families we are bound to protect have died out.
You are a Hunter, my dear girl, as I am, and as your grandfather and great-grandfather before him were.
Contrary to the name, we don’t kill the shifters we live near. We are charged with protecting their way of life and making sure none go rogue and take human life. We’ve worked side-by-side with them for centuries to keep a balance and encourage peace.
As much as we strive to be part of their community, you must realize that someday you may have to make the decision to go to extremes to protect them, and in some cases, put one down who has become a threat to society.
You’ll know what to do when that time comes. We all have.
Be strong, my little Hunter.
I love you.
Dad
The date at the top read two years before he’d killed Mr. Cress. Before he’d decided Momma should take her away from here and never look back. Before he’d decided Samantha was supposed to forsake this lineage she’d known nothing about.
The journal smelled of aged leather, and the thin paper crackled against her fingertips. The first several pages were a collection of names and relationships. Her family tree. Samantha Jane Young was scrawled in black ink at the very bottom.
Next came sketches of ancient looking bears fighting men with spears in their hands. Pages and pages were filled with j
ournal entries from different people who matched distant relatives. It was a scientific account of the migration of the bear shifters they followed.
Where they lived and for how long.
The numbers of males, females and cubs in each clan.
The figures in the first few entries numbered in the tens of thousands, and each clan had five-hundred members at least. Many of them were led by one family. Cress. But as she read the faded handwriting about wars, diseases, and battles with humans throughout history, the numbers dwindled. By the last entry, only a hundred remained, and the Hunters had scattered.
All but her father.
Dad seemed to be the last active one, as his handwriting detailed the population of Joseph. A list of alphas was written in the side margin, and he’d sketched a tree with the names of Bron and Trent, and four generations of Cress men before them.
A Hunter’s duty was to stay on the outside, friendly with the clan, close with the alphas to monitor trouble before it arose for humans and bear shifters alike. They were the middle men who helped keep peace between the supernatural and human worlds.
Every word read, every page studied, she tucked the book back into its resting place beneath the hidden floorboard and replaced the carpet.
The rain had slowed to an occasional patter against the window, and she pulled her knees to her chest like it would protect her from the unknown world she’d stumbled upon.
She hadn’t known it, but as a Hunter, her duty was to stay close and on the outside all at once. Instead, she’d made the mistake of falling in love with a Cress alpha.
“Smooth, fuckin’ move,” she muttered dryly.
Her phone chirped and she pulled it from her pocket. Another text from Reese.
Tried to check on Bron today but he’s MIA. I’m at his house right now and he’s not here either. Where are you? We need to talk.
Samantha hated texting, so she hit the call button and leaned her head back against the wall.