by Lori Drake
“How’s he holding up?” she asked, in the quiet that followed.
“Not too bad, really. However, Mom’s still pissed that you shifted in front of him,” Ben said, tipping his head back to look up at the stars. It was a cloudless night, and the moon was still high. It had only been two hours, at most, since the incident in question. At least Dean hadn’t freaked out too much, and she’d gotten an answer to the question of whether or not he’d known lycanthropes existed. He hadn’t.
“I hoped he was too disoriented and night-blind to notice,” she murmured, grimacing.
Ben chuckled and sipped his drink. “No man is too disoriented or night-blind to not notice a wolf turning into a gorgeous naked woman. Especially not a straight one.”
Joey sighed and pulled away from him. Or tried, anyway. His arm only tightened, holding her there. In fact, he set his mug aside and wrapped both arms around her.
“Don’t run away from us, Roo.”
Her throat tightened. He hadn’t called her that since she was a kid. “I’m not running away,” she protested.
“Then why are you out here by yourself?”
It was a good question, and she didn’t have a ready answer for it. The battle was over. They hadn’t suffered any casualties. The surviving Eastgate coven witches were on their way back to Nevada with tails firmly between legs, promising never to return. Cathy had left too, citing a need to get some rest and put her affairs in order so she could leave town the next day. Her mother was with Dean and Emma, doing damage control. Her father and the rest of her family were in the library with their guests from the Newman pack—they’d arrived too late to join the fighting but just in time to make sure the two remaining enemy witches were sufficiently cowed. Facing down over a dozen growling wolves tended to do that. The mood in the library was jubilant. They’d beaten the odds and won the day.
In spite of it all, Joey felt little urge to celebrate.
“I just… needed to think,” she said, running a fingertip absently along the rim of her mug. “I killed a woman tonight.”
Ben gave her a squeeze. “You did what you had to do. She was a fanatic. She wouldn’t have stopped until we were dead or she got what she wanted.”
“Maybe,” Joey said, unconvinced. The specter of Chris's face layered atop Tasha’s as the blade found its mark haunted her. But she wasn’t ready to talk about that. She wasn’t sure she ever would be.
They sat in silence for a time before Joey heard quiet footsteps behind them. She didn’t look behind her until a throat cleared quietly.
“Sorry to interrupt. Got a minute?” Dean said, standing just outside the patio door.
Ben caught Joey’s eyes and stood only after she nodded to him. Turning, he walked back into the house, clapping Dean on the shoulder briefly in passing.
“What’s up?” Joey asked.
Dean joined her on the bench. “So, you’re a werewolf,” he said, without preamble.
Joey winced, finally taking a sip of her coffee. The warm liquid soothed her like a balm for the soul. “We prefer the term ‘lycanthropes’ but usually we just refer to ourselves as wolves.” She glanced at him, studying his profile in the moonlight.
He nodded, calm as could be.
“You’re taking this really well,” she said.
Dean shrugged, looking over at her. “I knew there was something different about you, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Honestly, I’m a little disappointed.”
Joey blinked. “Eh?”
“I thought you were a mutant or something. That would have been really cool.”
Joey blinked again, totally at a loss for how to respond to that.
Dean smiled and chuckled as he nudged her with his elbow. “That was a joke.”
“Oh.” Joey chuckled awkwardly and took another sip of coffee. “Well, in that case I’m sorry I’m not a mutant.”
“It’s a shame, really. You’d look great in a spandex costume.”
Joey chuckled again, a weak smile creeping onto her face. “Oh, I do.” It was Dean’s turn to blink, and Joey laughed softly. “Dancer, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Dean laughed, shaking his head as he looked out across the back yard.
The conversation lulled as they sat there quietly. Joey wanted to ask him if he’d heard anything from Chris. If he had, he’d tell her. Right? The question nagged at her until she finally said something.
“He’s really gone, right?” she asked, looking his way again. “Crossed over, at peace, whatever?”
“All’s quiet on the spirit front,” Dean assured her. “Tasha’s gone too. I don’t know if you were worried about that, but she would have made one hell of a vengeful ghost.”
“Good thing she moved on, then.”
“Yeah.” A beep sounded from Dean’s pocket. He shifted on the bench to fish his phone out and glanced at the screen. “My ride’s here.”
“You’re leaving?” Joey said, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “I mean, of course you’re leaving. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon.”
“Yeah, I have to get my lawyer to look over the non-disclosure agreement your mom wants me to sign.”
Joey’s spine stiffened and she frowned, glancing over her shoulder toward the house. “The what?”
“Kidding, relax. She’s pretty intense, though. Your mom. Don’t worry, your family secret is safe with me.”
Joey blew out a relieved but frustrated breath. “Are you always such a smart-ass?” she asked, eyeing him warily.
“Pot, kettle, black,” he murmured, shifting on the bench like he might rise. Instead, he paused and looked at her again. “Did he tell you?”
Joey’s eyes scanned his face in the moonlight. She didn’t need to ask him who or what. Something in his now-somber expression, the earnestness in his eyes, made it clear. Her heart twinged at the memory of Chris's words and she had to swallow a lump in her throat before she could answer.
“He told me.”
Dean nodded, pushing to his feet. “I guess it’d be pretty awkward if I mentioned that coffee date now.”
“Yeah, pretty awkward,” Joey agreed, following him with her eyes. “I’m surprised you’d want to have anything else to do with me at all, really.”
“Eh. Most women turn into a bitch once a month anyway.” He flashed her a boyish smile and winked, then turned to head back inside. “See you around, Joey.”
“See you,” she said, smirking as she twisted to watch him go.
Left alone, Joey set her mug aside and drew up her legs, wrapped her arms around her knees and closed her eyes. It was difficult not to wallow in despair. She knew Chris wouldn’t want that. He was at peace, and Emma was safe. He’d want her to have a little peace of her own. She didn’t know if she could find it, but she’d try.
Memories flickered behind her closed eyelids. Memories of Chris. Memories of Cheryl. She still felt the sting of losing them, but layered atop it was gratitude for having known them at all. In that moment she knew that the time she’d had with them—however short—was better than none at all.
Wrapping those precious memories around her like armor, she rose and headed back inside to rejoin the living.
Chris opened his eyes to darkness so complete that he wasn’t sure if his eyes were really open at all. Disoriented, he blinked a few times but the darkness didn’t clear from his vision and no shapes emerged from it. The last thing he remembered was Joey’s face, sad but pale and beautiful in the moonlight. He hadn’t even heard the snap of the dagger when it broke. He was simply there one moment and then… darkness.
It seemed to him that only seconds had passed, but time was so strange in this place. He didn’t trust his own sense of time anymore.
He tried to sit up, but smacked his head. His hands went up automatically. There was something solid inches overhead. Solid, yet soft in texture as his fingertips slid along it.
Where am I?
His head throbbed where he’d whacked it, and in realiz
ing that he became aware of another pain, lancing his stomach. His hand went there automatically. The pain flared as he touched the spot through layers of clothing. The memory of being stabbed, not once but twice, flickered behind his eyes. He shuddered with pain, both present and remembered.
As he felt around him some more, he became aware of other things. The scent of clean linen. The sensation of fabric against his skin. The sound of his breathing, heavy in the enclosed space. The rushing of blood in his ears as his heart pounded. His limbs felt leaden, stiff from lack of use, but his senses were alert. Heightened, in a way they hadn’t been since that fateful night.
Panic and horror set in as he pushed at the lid of the satin-lined box. The casket.
“Help!” he cried, barely recognizing his own hoarse voice. He beat his fists on the casket lid, but even his supernatural strength couldn’t displace six feet of earth layered atop it.
This was wrong. This was all wrong. He was supposed to be at peace, wherever spirits went when they crossed over to the other side. He wasn’t supposed to be back in his body, trapped in a box with limited air and even more limited options for escape.
After yelling himself hoarser for a time, he forced himself to lie still and tried to slow his breathing, knowing that he would deplete his oxygen faster if he didn’t calm down. His wolf paced regardless, caged and unhappy.
I’m alive.
The realization elated him. Visions of second chances danced behind his closed eyes and swelled his chest. A sense of determination filled him, overriding the fear. He didn’t know how or why, but he was alive and he was not going to waste it. He’d find a way out of his premature grave and back to his life. His family. Joey.
Somehow.
Published by Clockwork Cactus Press
651 N US Highway 183 Ste 335 #107
Leander, TX 78641 USA
SHALLOW GRAVE (GRANT WOLVES BOOK 2)
Previously published as OUT OF STEP.
Copyright © 2018 Lori Drake
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9994333-5-5
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher.
Second Edition: June 2018
For Matt.
1
Chris lay in darkness, drifting on the edge of consciousness.
He had no idea how long he’d been trapped beneath the earth, but the air had definitely gotten thinner. The casket’s satin lining was thoroughly shredded overhead. If he’d been able to see anything at all, he would’ve seen the dings and scratches in the exposed casket lid, the fine cracks through the splintering wood. He’d bashed his fists against it until they stung and the coppery tang of blood tickled his nostrils.
Then he’d forced himself to close his eyes and take shallow breaths until the skin healed so he could do it all over again.
His eyelids were heavy. The adrenaline that fueled his efforts at escape had faded some time ago. Desperation had fled, and now all he felt was tired. So. Very. Tired.
A sound drew his eyelids up—at least, he thought his eyes were open. It was impossible to tell, in darkness so complete. Even his wolf’s night vision required a light source, however faint. The stars. The moon. How he longed to see them one more time.
He thought his oxygen-deprived brain might be playing tricks on him at first, but no. There was definitely a soft rumble overhead. It was just so faint that even his wolf ears had to strain to hear it.
“Help.” His voice was a reedy croak; he didn’t have the air—much less the energy—to shout anymore.
The rumble grew louder. A tremor shook the casket, vibrating in the air.
“Help,” he whispered. His fingers twitched where they lay at his sides, but he couldn’t summon the strength to lift them. The noise and vibration grew, shaking him until his teeth rattled and his sluggish heart thumped more rapidly.
Then the rumbling stopped and all was still. Quiet. Leaving him to wonder if it had happened at all, until the casket lid opened abruptly and light shone in his eyes, blinding him. He groaned and squinted against the glare, but took a deep, gasping breath of the fresh air that rolled into the enclosed space in which he’d been trapped. An exhale turned into a ragged cough, as if the purity of the air were too much for his lungs.
“It’s all right,” came a familiar voice. “You’re going to be fine, child. Just breathe.”
A light weight landed gently on his shoulder and warmth spread through his body from there. It rolled over him like honey coating a ravaged throat, soothing and relaxing until the moment it reached his midsection. Pain flared, a burning sensation, as if the not-yet-healed wound was turned inside out. His back arched and his vision swam. A ragged scream escaped from between tightly clenched teeth.
He sagged against the casket’s thin padding a few agonizing seconds later. The pain faded as quickly as it had come and the warmth continued flowing down his body. He pressed a hand to his middle. There was no more pain; the wound was healed. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the light, prompting its bearer to shift the beam of the flashlight off his face. He blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust until they could focus on the face hovering over the open casket. The wrinkled, aging face was wreathed in a glowing golden aura.
“Cathy?” His voice sounded more like his own again, between Cathy’s healing magic and the infusion of air to his lungs. “Is this real?”
“Welcome back,” Cathy said, smiling down at him. She squeezed his shoulder and the halo around her winked out, taking that warm tingle with it. “Can you sit up?”
Chris pushed himself into a sitting position, but as soon as his head cleared the lip of the casket, he was possessed by the overwhelming urge to get out. He gripped the edge and scrambled out hastily. Too hastily. His knees buckled under him and he hit the ground hard, landing on his hands and knees in the grass.
Cathy was there in a flash, a hand on his back as she crouched beside him. “Take it easy. It's going to take time to get your bearings.”
“What happened?” He looked up and met her eyes.
“You don’t remember?” Her brow wrinkled and her hand lifted, moving toward his head. That golden glow surrounded her again.
He jerked away, fetching up against the side of the casket. He warded her off with trembling hands. “Don’t touch me!”
Cathy backed off, sitting back on her heels. She pressed her lips together, but there was understanding in her eyes and sympathy on her face.
Chris shifted until he was sitting on the ground, his back to the open casket. He looked around, taking in the forest of headstones rising around him like granite teeth. His hands skimmed the blades of grass at his sides. They tickled against his palms, cool and wet against his skin. When his hands moved back too far, they encountered disturbed earth at the base of the casket. The ornate wooden box sat atop a small mound of soil, as if the earth had simply coughed it up.
He focused on Cathy again. “I—I was dead. I remember that. We killed Tasha. Joey destroyed the dagger. What happened after that?”
“The remaining Eastgate witches saw the error of their ways and were allowed to return home. They took the body with them.”
Chris nodded and curled his fingers in the upturned soil. “And I woke up six feet under, instead of crossing over. And you—you dug me up.”
“Yes.”
“You knew this would happen.”
She shook her head. “No, not for certain.”
Chris frowned. “But you had enough of a suspicion to come out here in the middle of the n
ight… Why didn’t you tell me?”
Cathy clicked her tongue softly. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up, child. Yours or Joey’s.”
Joey. He had to get back to her. Chris picked himself up off the ground, moving carefully so as to not take another tumble. He ended up having to use the casket for leverage, and his eyes caught upon the shredded lining of the open casket lid. A shiver raced down his spine, but he finished pulling himself to his feet. His legs didn’t want to work, and that filled him with fear. Cathy rose, more gracefully, to join him.
“Easy does it,” she murmured. “You’ve been dead all week.”
“I want to go home,” Chris said, hoping it didn’t sound as childish as it felt. At least he hadn’t said he wanted his mom, but the sentiment was there.
“I know, love. I need to tidy up a bit first. There’s a bench over there. Do you think you can make it?”
It couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet, and he wasn’t particularly confident about it, but he nodded anyway. He straightened and locked his knees. Cathy reached for him when he teetered, but he shook his head and she stepped back with a sigh. Chris walked stiffly over to the bench. He’d never felt so graceless in his life, but he made it and collapsed onto it with a sigh of relief.
He stretched out his legs and rubbed his stiff muscles while Cathy reburied the casket. It was an unsettling thing, watching the earth swallow the casket once more. When she was finished, grass covered the ground where it had been once more, as if nothing had been disturbed at all at the foot of Chris’s tombstone.
Gonna have to get that taken down. Shit, how am I going to explain this to the cops?
Chris pushed those thoughts aside as Cathy walked over to stand in front of him.