20 Shades of Shifters: A Paranormal Romance Collection

by Demelza Carlton

  Mama jutted her chin like a petulant child. “They make me feel like a dead thing. I won't take them. I’d rather die.”

  “Oh God!” Camila swiped angrily at her tears with the back of her hand. Her eyes floated over the garbage heap they called home. Help. She needed help. “We should call Abuelo. I won't mention Beatriz. I could try to call and tell him—”

  “Don’t you dare.” Mama sat up, the afghan falling off her lap. “I don't want you talking to anyone in that family. Got that? We take care of ourselves.”

  “Someone has to help us.” Tears streaked down Camila’s cheeks.

  Mama stood up and threw her arms around her daughter. “Shh, shh, mi amor. I’ll get better with that poison out of my system. I’ll get a job. I'll start looking tomorrow.”

  Camila shook her head and pulled away. She’d heard those promises before. She dried her eyes and shuffled to her room. God, why hadn’t she locked up the pills in the first place? This was all her fault. She pinched her hands together and forced herself to stop crying. Crying wouldn’t get the money they needed. No, she’d just have to work harder. Somehow.

  “Camila? My love?” Mama called.

  Camila kept walking. She didn’t even slam her door when she entered her room. She didn’t have the energy to be angry anymore.

  She walked down the hall and slumped into her bed, the life seeming to drain out of her. But when she closed her eyes she saw the guy at the dumpster. Homeless. Alone. Where was he right now? Had he found food? At least she had a home, a mother who cared about her even if she was bi-polar. What would it like to be all alone out there? Thinking of him, she said a prayer that he would find a safe place to sleep tonight.

  John

  Wednesday 12:23 a.m.

  John trekked through the brittle grass, his head down, one around wrapped protectively around his stomach. It cramped again, a sharp pain twisting his insides. He fought the urge to throw up, swallowing hard and wiping sweat off his brow. He was sick. So sick.

  He kept his head down, his body hunched over and his hands protectively around his stomach. A few hours ago he'd given in to thirst and drank from a trickling steam. Now his stomach was revolting. The half-eaten jelly donut he'd snagged from a backyard picnic table had come up a while ago. His empty stomach churned with nothing to calm it.

  Two days of searching for the silo in his vision. Two days of starving, running, of being constantly afraid. And now he was going to die from a drink of water.

  He should go back and talk to the girl at the ice cream shop.

  As he’d run away from her, the voice in his head encouraged him. You shouldn't trust her. They are all your enemy. All of them.

  John blinked and shook his head. She was his enemy? The pretty girl with the understanding eyes? He thought about her soft tan skin, the dark hair cascading over smooth shoulders. You don't have to do that, she'd said. Her voice echoed in his skull like a song he couldn't shake. She'd gone back to feed him, not turn him in, and still he had run. Can't trust them, the voice said. None of them.

  Each person that he’d encountered struck an off-key chord in his head. Stay away, his instincts said. Yet, something had been different in that one moment beside the dumpster. Somehow he'd been drawn to her, to her face so open and inviting, her hands outspread to say Come as you are. No alarm bells. No instinct telling him to run. Then she'd gone inside and he'd doubted himself, so he'd fled.

  What he wouldn't give to go back there now and stand beside her for just one more moment.

  Her voice swam around his head, soft and lyrical. And that smile. He could see the curl of her lips as she'd turned to go. He could run back and wait until she left for home. He could approach her then and hear her voice, see her smile, feel…what? Feel less alone.

  Bile rose up his throat, the hot acid burning his esophagus. John stopped, put his hands to his knees, and gagged. Then he lifted his bloodshot eyes to his surroundings. They'd find his body here beside the rusty tracks, the wildflowers dancing beside his bloated corpse. Or, more likely, no one would find him but the vultures.

  Help. He needed help. There was no way around it. His skin might crawl every time he was around people, but if he didn't ask for help soon he'd die. Plain and simple.

  Ten minutes later he came across a tiny four-pump gas station sitting between tall pines, on a long gravel driveway. It was empty except for one rusty pickup in the back. A metal Walt’s Crawlers sign creaked lazily in the breeze. A freezer hummed in front, the word Ice written in huge blue letters capped with snow. John eyed the padlock on the freezer, his throat tightening. What he wouldn't give for ice right now. His eyes flicked to the Quick-E Mart behind the pumps. The interior, glowing with blueish white florescent light, looked empty, but he spotted the clerk. He seemed to be sleeping with his head slumped to one side. How would he react when John limped up, asking for help? It didn't matter. Too late to turn back now.

  His stomach tightened like a fist as he walked to the door. He looked down and saw the tight blue running shorts and his dirty, bare feet. He knew he looked homeless and crazy.

  I'll just walk in and say “Hi. I'm John. Can you help me?”

  He took a deep breath and pushed inside.

  The smell hit him first.

  His hands flew up to his mouth as the putrid, decaying stench hit him like a wall. He stumbled back, his shoulder slamming into the door. Good God, what happened? His eyes flicked around the place: metal shelves with bags of chips, beef jerky, canned peanuts and candy. He spotted the trail of blood along the back by the beer fridge.

  On the tile, bloody prints tracked toward the door, huge and animal. He spun, trembling. He had to get out. Fear raced up his spine as he turned toward the cash register. The clerk's back was to him, slumped in a chair against the wall.

  “Hello?” he said, barely breathing. “Are you all right?”

  John walked over, his legs threatening to buckle. He put a trembling hand on the man's shoulder. Slowly, he turned the man around.

  The clerk fell forward onto his arm. John screamed and jumped back. The mangled body, slumped against the counter, was grotesque. The clerk's throat was torn away, a wide red mess of sinew and bone above his blood-soaked shirt. Wire-rimmed glasses were perched over sightless, glassy eyes. Moments ago this man had been breathing, working, maybe reading that blood-soaked paper. A buzzing began in John's ears. The world narrowed to a pinhole. He was going to pass out.

  He put his hands to his knees, vaguely aware of smearing the clerk's blood from his hand onto his clothes. He sucked in ragged breaths. The smell was everywhere. With trembling fingers he drew his shirt over his nose. His vision cleared.

  Get food and get out. He took a few fumbling steps toward the nearest shelf, keeping his eyes off the clerk. He grabbed a few bags of chips, beef jerky, and a box of donuts. He found a cloth bag on a rack and stuffed it full. Then he opened the fridge and snagged four waters.

  Chiming sounded at the door behind him. John swiveled. A cop pushed in, whistling through his teeth. The tune stopped as the cop locked eyes with John. “What the…?” The cop's eyes traveled past John to the dead clerk. John watched as the cop's face registered shock, then fury.

  No, John thought. He’ll think I—

  “Hands up!” the cop said, clawing for the pistol at this belt. His hands shook as he pulled the gun out, but the cop locked his elbows and brought the barrel up to John’s chest.

  John shook his head, lifting both hands. “I…I didn’t kill him.”

  “Jesus,” the cop said, his face draining of color. “Jesus Christ.” His eyes flicked to the body. “Joe has eight grandkids.” The hitch in the cop's voice was unmistakable. The clerk and the cop had been friends.

  Sweat sprang up on John’s forehead. He lifted a hand to wipe it out of his eyes.

  “Don’t move!” The cop's arms trembled, his shaggy gray eyebrows arching high. He thumbed off the safety.

  “I didn’t kill him.” He'd be arrested and
locked up. He never should've come in here.

  John looked toward the backdoor. He could make it in four steps. The cop bristled and tightened his face. “I said don’t move, asshole!”

  John blinked once, calculating. Then he turned and bolted toward the back door.

  The gunshot cracked the air like a bomb. Something punched into John’s side. Then another shot. The glass case behind John exploded. Glass shards pelted his legs and back. A can of pop sprayed a hiss of foam into the air.

  He fell, the tile rising up to meet his face. He hit the ground, brain jarring, vision dimming. Then he was lying on the floor, the coolness of the tile a relief on his flushed cheek. His eyes focused on a bag of Doritos. The pain in his side burned as if a hot poker was boring deep into this stomach. It was hard to draw breath.

  The world became a throbbing pulse somewhere far.

  It dimmed, blackened. Gone.

  Wednesday 12:31 a.m.

  He came to with a start.

  John sat up, instantly regretting it. A piercing pain lanced his abdomen. His mind was sluggish. Why was he on the floor?

  The gas station. The cop.

  Where was the man that shot him? From his vantage point on the tile, the cop was nowhere to be seen. His eyes trailed past the shattered glass that littered the floor. An exploded pop can lay on its side, its contents a messy red puddle. John reached a hand down to his side. He was bleeding.

  Scooting to the edge of the shelf, he peered around the racks of Doritos. Outside, the cop sat in his black cruiser, a CB to his mouth, the red and blue flashers throwing crazy splotches on the walls.

  He thinks I’m dead, John thought. He had minutes, maybe seconds before the cop learned that wasn't true.

  Crouching, John ran to the back door. His bloody hands had trouble with the knob, but he managed after a few tries. He slid out onto a small concrete parking lot, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. A beat-up truck sat on a giant oil stain. The dumpster reeked of rotten meat and old beer, but anything was better than what he'd been inhaling inside.

  He ran, hunched over, past the truck, and the gravel lot. He fled into the woods without looking back.

  Shivering, he pushed himself deep, deep into the forest. When the tree cover was so dense he could barely make his way through, he stopped. A cold sweat covered his body. His legs shook and his stomach churned. He leaned his back against a tree and swallowed. He'd have to look at his wound eventually.

  Man up! he told himself. He took a couple deep breaths and looked down.

  The T-shirt was red except for a few spots on the collar and arms. Just below his rib cage, the bullet had ripped a jagged hole through the fabric. He bit his lip and peeled the T-shirt up. So much blood. He wiped away the blood, revealing the skin of his stomach. John probed it with his fingers.

  There was no wound.

  The skin felt tender, liked he’d taken a proper punch, but not at all like a gunshot wound. It was like…like he had healed.

  John fell back against the rough tree bark and tried to keep breathing. He pressed his palms to his knees. The shovel was one thing, but a gunshot? How?

  “Just keep calm,” he said out loud, suddenly afraid of the thoughts banging around his head. He ran his hands over his stomach, his back, his arms. Nothing. He wiggled a finger through the bullet hole in his shirt. Then he slid down the tree and put his head in his hands.

  Good God, what was he?

  Camila

  Wednesday 12:36 a.m.

  Noises woke Camila. Was someone in the trailer? She sat up. “Mama?”

  No response. Getting out of bed, her heart started to pound. She walked to the doorway and peered out. Every light was on.

  “Mama?” A nervous sweat dotted her back. She glanced around. Had someone been here? Could someone have broken in?

  The noxious smell of chemicals hit her nose halfway to the bathroom. The door was closed. Behind it, she heard muttering.

  “Mama!” She jiggled the doorknob. “Let me in.”

  The door popped open and slid back slowly. Camila stepped inside.

  Mama was leaning over the bathtub in her nightgown and slippers, yellow rubber gloves up to both elbows. Her hair curled away from her head in all directions. She regarded her only child with wild, frantic eyes.

  “Camila, I glad you home from work.” Her mother spoke so fast that the words ran together. “Just cleaning this mess up. Help me get this tub clean.” She dropped back and scrubbed like a madwoman.

  “Hey,” Camila said, stepping into the bathroom, “It’s past midnight. You can clean tomorrow.” She pulled at her mother’s elbow, just bones and skin under a loose cotton robe.

  Mama shook her head and continued to scrub. “Can’t leave it like this, mi amor. Help me.” The brush made a shushing sound against the tub wall.

  Mama was now in the manic stage of her Bipolar Disorder. Camila had read every article she could get her hands on about the disease. The manic phase could last a few hours, a few days, or longer. And with all the pills gone and no money to buy new ones, who knew what was next for Mama? The possibilities were endless and terrifying. Once in eighth grade Mama had disappeared for four days. Another time, she'd bought them a new car and had it repossessed in the same week. And how many times had she been picked up for shoplifting?

  “Mama, please.” Camila's voice broke.

  Mama paid her no mind. Her bony knees pressing into the dirty tile, Mama scrubbed the tub, her elbow cranking like a piston. “We get this clean, don't you worry. All clean. Just help me get this grout and then I work on the sink.”

  Camila slid down the hallway wall and sat among the trash. There was no stopping Mama now. Waiting for Mama to wear herself out, Camila sat a silent vigil.

  Wednesday 8:12 a.m.

  Camila woke with a start. Morning. Ms. Kaminski's dog howled outside. She shifted and her elbow thunked into a toaster. What was she doing on the hallway floo— Mama.

  The bathroom was empty. She listened for movement and heard none. Mama must've given up cleaning and gone to sleep. Maybe things weren't as dire as she thought.

  “Mama?”

  No trace. Camila flung open the front door and peered into the carport. No trace of her mother.

  Camila stuffed her feet into her flip-flops, thundered down the front steps, and tore down the road. She ran to Ms. Kaminski's and pounded on the screen door. Ms. K was the only person in the park that Mama ever talked to.

  “Ms. K!” Camila banged her fist on the screen door. It rattled in its casing. Harley, the cockier spaniel, staked on his chain in the side yard, barked like mad. “Ms. K, I need your help!”

  Camila's mind raced. The last time Mama went manic, she'd taken off like this. She’d come back eighteen hours later with a dozen dollar store bags slung over her arms, the cops right behind.

  Through the screen, Camila watched as the old woman lumbered forward from her back bedroom. She wore a flowered housedress and flattened slippers. Veins stood out like Ramen noodles on her white legs. Her thinning white hair showed too much scalp.

  “Camila, is everything alright?” Her arthritic fingers fumbled for the door latch.

  “Ms. K, is my mom in here? Have you seen her?” Camila peered over Ms. K's shoulder into her trailer. It smelled of mothballs and cheese. An old rocker with worn arms and a cushioned seat rested in front of a television. The Price is Right blared on the screen.

  Ms. K shook her head and frowned. “She run off again?”

  “I don't know. Will you let me know if you see her?”

  Ms. K nodded. “Sorry, sweetheart. I'll let you know if I see her.”

  Camila was already heading down the sidewalk. She ran around the trailer park once, checking down all the rows, but Mama was nowhere to be found. By the time she got back to the trailer, she was tired and footsore. She clomped up her porch steps, a thick dread hanging over her.

  When her eyes found the clock, she realized she was over an hour late for work. She scr
ambled around the trailer for her keys and phone. She was on her bike and pedaling down the block in seconds.

  She skidded up to the ice cream shop, dropped her bike at the back door, and almost ran into Lizzy.

  Her boss whirled around, placing both hands on her hips. Her ratted hair was clamped back in a banana clip, the blond bangs spilling over the top like a hair sprayed wave. “Here you are. We've been trying to call.”

  “Lizzy, I'm sorry. It was my mom. She's gone—”

  Lizzy's red fingernails sliced through the air, cutting her off. “Camila, you know what I hate more than someone being late?”

  She shook her head. “I don't know.”

  Behind Lizzy, Travis offered a sympathetic shrug.

  “I can't stand when someone tries to blame their screw-ups on others.” Her carefully drawn-on eyebrows drew together. “My numb nuts ex-husband tried to blame our breakup on me,” she pointed to her chest, “when I knew all along he was boinking Darcy in the back of his Suburban. Is that what you're trying to do to me?” Lizzy flashed nicotine stained teeth. “You trying to screw me?”

  Camila dropped her head. “No ma'am, but you don't understand. My mom's missing. If I could just get an hour to go looking for her…” She trailed off when Lizzy's scowl did not fade.

  “You can have the whole day if I fire you right now.” Lizzy jutted her chin and waited.

  Camila dropped her eyes and shook her head.

  “Didn’t think so.” Lizzy wiped a smudge of goo off the counter and frowned. “I'm a three-strikes kind of lady. You get another chance. But if you're late again, your ass is grass.” She gave Camila a final look. “Travis,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Get her a spare shirt from the back.” She turned to Camila. “It'll come out of your check, little lady.”

  Camila nodded, but the news stung. She needed every bit of that money. She opened her mouth to tell Lizzy, but her boss was already stalking toward the back with her cellphone in hand. The conversation was over.