Edge of Instinct: Rabids Book 1

by Amy Cook

  When it was packed to capacity, she stared at the masses of dresses left in the closet-courtesy of her mother and the lifestyle she had been forced to lead- cotillions, dates, and ball after stupid ball for fund raisers that had no real purpose. Disgusted, she moved to shove the door closed, stopping as a glimmer of purple caught her eye. Slowly reaching inside she pulled out the long silky dress.

  It was the dress Jaron encouraged her to buy for herself on one of his rare visits home, about three years earlier. She had refused to go to an important fund raiser with the jerk her mother declared as her date. The guy was as stuck up as they come, and stiffer than a board unless of course he was drinking. Then he was pawing at her like a starving man sitting down to a grand thanksgiving dinner. He’d shown up at the door three sheets to the wind and tried to force his tongue down her throat the moment she’d stepped out the door. She’d proceeded to slam that door in his face, likely adding a broken nose to his inebriated state. It had felt good for all of two seconds, before reality had hit her like a door in the face.

  She knew that if she showed up at the ball without her date, or not at all, Malinda would be furious. Her mother didn’t care what his behavior was, or how often he did vile ungentlemanly things towards her daughter. He was the son of the richest family, second to the Hilden’s alone, which meant Malinda considered them near royalty. She’d done the only thing her terrified mind had been able to think to do; run to her brother and bawl all over him.

  Jaron however had been beaming with pride when she confessed what she’d done, praising her for “telling that greasy little player where to shove it.” She smiled now, remembering his proud grin and how she had reveled in it.

  “My Baby Girl’s first step toward rebellion. I’m so proud.” She’d rolled her eyes, but secretly soaked in every ounce of that praise. “Now, let me guess. Mom picked your date, which I’m sure means she picked your dress too, right? Let’s give the ol’ girl a heart attack and show up with a different date and a different dress”

  He had winked devilishly and immediately driven her to a store where she bought this sleek purple dress. It was entirely different from what their mother would approve of, and as such it was perfect. Jaron took her as his own date, wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and a white t shirt, so as to take the brunt of their mother’s disapproval.

  Amiel pulled away from the memory, carefully folding the dress into her duffel. It was stupid, unrealistic, and she doubted it would be on any other teen’s runaway bag list. It took up room, and she was sure she’d never have opportunity to use it wherever she ended up. Yet sentimentality overrode rationality, and the dress stayed where it was in the bag. There was no way she could leave it behind.

  Wearing her favorite calf-length black buckle up boots- also a gift from Jaron- over a pair of skinny jeans and a tight white t-shirt, she took one last glance in the mirror. She looked casual, comfortable even. Her grin faded. She looked entirely too suspicious. She could dress as casual as she wanted, but in the end she would still be noticed. You couldn’t be Malinda Hilden’s daughter and not be noticed especially when you were toting a giant duffle bag and skulking around outside of a motorcycle shop. Frowning at her reflection, Amiel fumbled for confidence in her plan. The only way her escape plan would succeed was if she were able to leave without notice. All it would take would be one single phone call, and Malinda would come storming home to lock her away forever.

  Amiel tossed on a pair of over sized glasses and pulled her hair back into a bun, only to sigh in frustration. It still wasn’t enough. She riffled through the closet again until she found what she was looking for. The hoodie was a plain light gray sweater, crumpled from its year of neglect, stuffed in a corner of the closet. Her nose wrinkled at it, trying to remember which of the potential suitors her mother had handpicked for her had decided Amiel needed an oversized reminder of him. Fred, Phil…Rick? Amiel shook her head and stuffed the hoodie over her head. Malinda had forced Amiel to keep every gift her dates gave her, though most ended up in a box stuffed in the far corner of her closet. Flipping the hood up over her head, Amiel examined her makeshift disguise. The baggy sweater masked most of her feminine features, and the hood worked well with the glasses to cover her face. For once Amiel was glad of Malinda’s overbearing tendencies.

  A thrill coursed up her spine as she scheduled a taxi, covertly arranging to meet it at an address two blocks away from her own, allowing herself enough time to sneak out of the house and get there before the taxi could pinpoint her real origin of residence. It was sophomoric in the eyes of what many rebellious teenagers her age did, yet Amiel couldn’t help the grin of mischief and excitement as she slipped out of her bedroom door.

  Flinging the duffel over her head so that it was situated comfortably across her back, Amiel nervously made her way through the house. She avoided servants throughout the house on her way to the back garden doors feeling rather pleased with her ninja-like evasion skills. Until someone cleared their throat from behind. Wincing, Amiel slowly turned around, quickly tossing on a bright smile that she hoped covered the guilt.

  “Jeller! Hi.” Jeller nodded in respect, though his eyes were quickly assessing her attire and the bag flung over her back.

  “Miss Amiel, one moment if you please.” Holding up a finger he disappeared down the hallway. Amiel fidgeted apprehensively, her heart about to leap through her ribcage as she debated the next step. Was he calling her mother? Should she make a run for it, or try to lie her way out of it? Fingers itching to twirl a piece of the hair now wrapped up in a useless bun, Amiel considered her options. Did she trust Jeller? Could she afford to trust anyone?

  Sighing heavily, Amiel leaned against the wall, and hoped she’d made the right decision. As far as Amiel and Jeller went, with their social situations being as they were, they couldn’t technically claim friendship. But prying eyes aside and with the many absences of her mother, Jeller had become a confidant and friend to Amiel. At least, she hoped he felt enough of a bond of friendship with her that he wouldn’t turn her in.

  She stiffened as he popped up around the corner, silently motioning her to follow him. She didn’t miss the way he glanced around surreptitiously as he held the garden doors open for her. Amiel followed silently as he led the way to a secluded section of the vast gardens, near the edge of their property. Astute as always, he knew their conversation would be best unheard by the less trustworthy servants in the house.

  “I get the feeling I won’t be seeing you again, Miss,” Jeller stated solemnly. There was no accusation in his voice, only concern, and perhaps even approval.

  “I’m just going to stay with a friend in town for a few days, Jeller, that’s all.” She fought against the panic, praying he’d somehow believe her. Jeller smiled softly.

  “I have eyes to see when a little bird has found her wings, Miss Amiel. And you’re a terrible liar.” She stared up into his knowing eyes and not for the first time wondered why he had chosen the profession of butler. He was only about ten years older than her, and was a handsome guy. Butler just seemed too stuffy a position to match his personality. However, he did his job well and Malinda was quite fond of him. Malinda of course would never stoop to the level of having sex with a servant, but that didn’t stop her from eying his butt every time he turned around. If she knew about some of the things he and Amiel called her behind her back, no amount of a hot butt would save him from Malinda’s wrath.

  “I’m…” He held up a hand.

  “No no, it’s better if I don’t know anything about it, Chickadee. Though, if you wish it, I could tell your mother that you ran off with a gypsy circus to dance with dolphins and an ape man named Nigel.” Amiel giggled. That is something she could imagine him telling her mother, with that uncanny ability of his to stay straight-faced in any situation.

  “Any excuse would be fine I’m sure. It won’t make a difference to her.” She shrugged, unconcerned with what her mother thought of her reasons for leaving. By
the time Malinda came home, Amiel would be long gone and she hoped she’d never see the woman’s face again. She knew her mother wouldn’t cut her visit to the spa short, nor would she bother to call and check up on her only remaining child. She never did. Calling would imply that she actually cared, a truth Amiel was never uncertain of. No, if Malinda did call, it would only be to ensure that her offspring wasn’t doing anything untoward that would stain her own pristine reputation.

  “With Jaron gone…I just can’t stay here anymore.” He nodded understanding and sympathy in his blue eyes.

  “A bird needs its wings,” he replied with that knowing smile of his. “I almost envy you.” Smiling mischievously, Amiel readjusted the duffle on her back.

  “Well, here’s your chance, do something crazy and come with me.”

  “Who, me?” he asked pretending shock. “I’m too pretty to be on the run.” He gave her a wink before stepping back. “Besides, something tells me you are going to need the best head start you can get over the old lady. I’ll do what I can to cover for you.” He reached into his pocket, producing a small black object.

  “Here, take this. Use your SD card to transfer your photos and anything important over to this new phone. Your mother won’t be able to track what she doesn’t know exists.” Amiel’s jaw dropped.

  “I can’t take your phone, Jeller,” she protested.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got several more.” Amiel’s brow rose and he offered her a conspiratorial smirk. “Being a butler gets boring at times. I enjoy earning a little business on the black now and then.” Cell phones were a hot commodity on the black market these days. Only the rich or well-connected owned them, and it was rare to have more than two in the household.

  “Malinda Hilden’s trusted butler, working in the black market and storing his contraband under her own roof. I knew you couldn’t be completely satisfied with the life of butlerdom. Is your name even Jeller?” She had been joking, but the shadow of a carefully guarded secret behind his smirk told her that she wasn’t far from the truth.

  “I’m not telling you, Miss Smarty-pants,” he quipped. “Now, hurry before your taxi leaves you high and dry.” Amiel’s eyes narrowed, surprised and annoyed at once. How did he do that?

  “What makes you think I’m taking a taxi?” Jeller merely shrugged, smug grin fully in place. Amiel shook her head and began scrolling through the personal items on her little red phone. Scrolling through the phone contacts, she found herself slightly deflated at knowing there wasn’t a single number she wanted to keep. With her precious photos moved to her new phone, she carefully tucked it into her pocket and let out a heavy sigh. She handed her old phone over, finding the action somewhat symbolic; handing over her past life and embracing the wide unknown before her. It was freeing, and strangely enough, empowering. Smiling, she looked to Jeller.

  “Will you be all right, when she comes back and finds me gone?”

  “Of course. It’s just like you said, you’ve been staying at a friend’s house all week. She won’t expect me to know more. After all, it’s not my job to keep an eye on you, remember?” She nodded, feeling another uncomfortable appreciation for Malinda’s downfalls. Her ideas of propriety and social status were going to save her from a lot of worry over Jeller’s job security.

  “You’d best go, Miss Amiel. That taxi won’t wait forever.” Amiel put on a brave smile and hugged her gaming partner.

  “Thank you for everything, Jeller. I will miss you.” He patted her softly on the back.

  “Not so much as I will miss you, Amiel. You are a pretty good video-game wing-man. Be careful out there, little chickadee.” He hugged her tight once more, then leaned away stiffly, resuming the position of Head Butler. Amiel forced her feet to carry her down the road, pulling the hood tighter around her face as she went. She kept her head ducked, shoulders hunched, and never once looked back to see Jeller disappear in the distance.

  Chapter 4

  Amiel

  The taxi dropped her off at the library, which was just half a block from her destination. Amiel told herself it was to add to her efforts of avoiding discovery, but the real reason was heavy in her stomach. She was allowing herself a small amount of distance to regain her courage, and maybe even back out. She sighed heavily and turned to stare at the motorcycle shop looming such a short distance away, contemplatively twirling a stray string on the hoodie. Was this something she really wanted to do? Travel agencies specialized in travel outside of the safety of the fortified cities. They were run by men and women who polite society deemed dangerous and quite simply too crazy for casual interaction. You’d almost have to be crazy to travel in desolate lands devoid of anything but your imminent death, wouldn’t you? Only those who were utterly desperate or insane themselves, sought out travel agents. Amiel grimaced, realizing that had to make her both desperate and crazy

  A shout nearby startled her so that she nearly stumbled off the curb. She glanced around, terrified she’d been discovered. The shouter turned out to be a guy greeting his friend on the other side of the street, the two walking off together as they laughed over some unknown joke. Not a single person was looking Amiel’s way. Still, the renewed fear of discovery was just the right amount of incentive to get her feet moving. One foot in front of the other, the shop gradually drew closer. A motorcycle- was she really considering buying a motorcycle?

  A shiver raced her spine at the thought of riding one of those beasts. Truth be told, she found the idea of a guy on a motorcycle simply irresistible. Granted, she had only seen a few riders in her lifetime, drifters stopping over in their town on their way to somewhere else. Her mother made certain they were not welcomed or encouraged to stay for long.

  Amiel couldn’t put her finger on it, but those brief glimpses of the riders had always pulled at her. It was something about the relaxed confident lines of their bodies, and the way the bike seemed to send them soaring down their path without anything holding them back. It left her with the impression that they were completely…free.

  Amiel had dreamed many times of being the one soaring down the road with nothing but freedom flowing through her veins. Of course, now that she was standing here with the real opportunity under her nose, it was a bit daunting. She didn’t know the first thing about motorcycles. Heck, she hadn’t even ridden a bicycle since she was ten. Steeling her resolve, Amiel took the last few steps. A large sign caught her interest as she stepped onto the lot, eyes locking to the words stamped there. If she were honest with herself she wasn’t here for the bikes, so much as she was here for what they represented.

  Goosebumps speckling her skin, Amiel yanked her eyes away from the sign and focused on the bikes before her. Gaze raking over them, she found what she wanted toward the back; the motorcycle that had always been the star of many a daydream. Shining chrome blinded her as she stepped closer, drawn to its luster. With a paint job of silver that faded effortlessly into a dark metallic purple and finally black, it was even more artistically beautiful than it had seemed from the road. Running a hand delicately over the paint job, she was completely enthralled in the bike when the first rippling of awareness washed over her. Someone was standing behind her. Spinning around with a gasp, she prepared herself to face who ever loomed behind.

  Heart skipping a few beats in its usual reaction to stress, she felt her cheeks redden in embarrassment when she realized it was the man from the funeral, the motorcycle shop owner, coming to offer help. His brow creased and he eyed her as though she were maybe a little crazy. She, in return, eyed him in awe. Up close he was even bigger than he had seemed at the funeral. At least six foot seven, muscles covered the bulk of him, his head was shaved bald, and his upper lip still boasted that long thick mass of gray-peppered brown hair that ran down past his chin. He wore a torn and grease covered sleeveless top, and jeans that were encased with leather chaps. He looked every bit like the bikers she’d seen riding through town.

  “Sorry. I was in my own world, I guess. I didn�
�t hear you,” Amiel muttered in apology. He nodded, but remained silent. She coughed. “Mud Hogs Travel Agency. That’s you, right?” The ghost of a smile possibly appearing under his mustache, he nodded again. She reached behind her back, searching for a long strand of hair to nervously twirl. Belatedly remembering the hood covering the hair, she settled on biting her lip as she desperately searched for the courage that had completely fled her system.

  “Like what ya see?” Her eyes widened up at him in horror, realizing she’d been caught staring at his huge frame again. With a raised brow he nodded to the bike she had been appraising when he showed up. “The bike, honey.” His Texan accent brought a smile to her face as she released a heavy sigh of relief.

  “Oh, yes! Whoever paints these is truly amazing!” She ran a hand across the sparkling silver, purple and black. “The way the colors fade seamlessly into one another, it’s like the hues of the night sky just before dark.”

  “Thanks. Do it all myself, actually.” It seemed he didn’t expect her acute observations of his work, yet his now obvious smile told her he appreciated it. His reply was gruff, to the point, but surprisingly gentle for the intimidating giant he first appeared.

  “Is it sized for a woman?” He nodded again, rocking back on his heels slightly as he admired his own handiwork.

  “Don’t make many of ‘em, especially this small. Not much demand from female bikers round here. Derned shame if ya ask me.” Her smile deepened and she found that his easy manner and appreciation for a woman on a motorcycle was giving her more confidence in her decision.

  “How much is it?” His eyes instantly turned wary, and that newfound confidence shriveled back into its hiding place.

  “Y’all askin’ for yourself, or someone else?”

  “Me.” She cringed when the answer came out sounding more like a question, than a statement.