Dark Refuge (33 page)

A barren one, thank goodness.

She sensed Ezekiel moving into place, heard the soft hiss as he uncoiled the leather bullwhip. His voice rose in rhythmic cadence, as if he spoke to thousands rather than a few ragged followers practically salivating over the promise of Romy’s punishment.

“You have been judged by the elders of this holy group and found guilty of consorting with the devil. Tempting your father with your whorish ways, and honoring your mother’s death. Giving honor to a woman who sought the devil’s attention is the same as honoring Satan. The only punishment is death by the lash. What say you, Romy Sarika, no longer the daughter of Ephron?”

“I say fuck you, Reverend Ezekiel.” She smiled when the crowd gasped.

She made no sound when the lash left a trail of fire from her left shoulder to her right buttock, but she sucked a deep, startled breath of air.

Then slowly she let it out.

It hurt. Damn, the whip hurt more than she’d expected, but she’d die silently if it took everything she had. She wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of watching her scream or writhe in pain. She wrapped her hands around the poles in time for the next strike. Tightened her fingers at the crack of the whip and the slashing, burning pain.

Right shoulder, left buttock, fully aware of the split second when the newest stripe crossed the first.

The pain from the first slash sizzled into the second and then the third, and together they stole her breath. Romy clenched her jaw and went away in her mind. The way she’d had to do the night her mother died, when she was six and her father had shoved his big penis between her legs and made her bleed.

He hadn’t cared that he hurt her at all, only that he had a warm cunt to fuck.

That’s what he called her when no one else could hear. He’d called her a cunt and a whore, said she was just like her mother. But Romy remembered her mother as strong and beautiful, with a quick laugh that she shared with Romy but always hid from her husband.

Romy was proud to be just like her mother.

Then she thought of her mother’s broken body—just bones, now—lying beneath the dirt and trash from the compound garbage dump. She’d tried to keep the unmarked grave cleared of debris at first, but then she feared that creating one noticeably clean spot in the midst of so much garbage would draw attention.

That was the last thing Romy wanted to do.

She’d given up trying to escape for the same reason. She couldn’t do it as a woman, not on her own. Her few attempts had led to beatings, though none as severe as this one. The wolf, though. If she’d been able to find her wolf, no one could stop her. Her mother had said so.

Her life was all about staying out of the way, under the radar. Today she’d sat by her mother’s unmarked grave chewing on a long stem of grass—Mama’s magic grass—remembering. Her father screaming curses, her mother standing before him so tall and strong and beautiful. And then she’d suddenly stripped off her simple dark dress and changed. One minute she’d been Romy’s mama, the next she’d been a huge, dark wolf, with sharp teeth and amber eyes. She’d growled, and then she’d lunged at her husband.

Romy hadn’t feared the wolf at all but her father had run away, screaming. The wolf didn’t chase him. She’d paced restlessly for a moment and then she was digging frantically beneath a shrub by the front porch, digging and pulling out a cloth bag and dropping the bag in front of Romy.

Romy remembered leaning over in front of the wolf, picking up the dirty bag and looking inside. It held a book—a cheap little diary no bigger than Romy’s prayer book. Somehow she’d known to hide it, and she slipped it into her apron pocket before anyone could see.

She’d never forget the voice in her head—her mother’s voice—the last time she’d heard her speak.

Good girl, baby. Hide it. Let no one read it, ever. It’s for you, not for anyone else. Don’t let them cage you. You and I are special, and it’s time they learned to accept us. But just in case . . . just in case anything happens, remember I will always love you. The grasses in the forest are magic, Romy. You’ll recognize them. They’re our magic.

Her mother the wolf had turned to run, but she wasn’t fast enough. Men from the compound were coming, running across the field of chest-high corn, when Reverend Ezekiel stopped, raised his rifle, and fired.

The beautiful dark wolf turned back into Romy’s mama before her body hit the ground. The men had all gathered around, staring at her mother’s naked body as her blood congealed in the dried grass. Her father never said a word, but he and the reverend and a couple of others had dragged the bloodied, naked body of her beautiful mother across the weed-covered field. Had dragged her to the garbage pit, where they threw her into the stinking pile of trash.

That night, while the men gathered at the chapel, Romy and one of the other grown women who had been her mother’s friend had taken Mama’s body out of the garbage. They’d found a place nearby and dug a shallow grave. Romy helped wrap her mother in a blanket off her own bed, and they’d quickly buried her and then scattered trash about to disguise the sinful thing they’d done.

No one could know. Only the one woman, and she would keep this secret, out of fear, if nothing else. No one disobeyed the men. That wasn’t allowed. Ever. Romy was six years old, but she knew she would never be a child again. Not after what she’d seen. What she’d done.

That night, her father made sure her childhood ended. That was the first night he’d taken her to his bed and told his only child, his six-year-old daughter, what her new duties would be.

She surfaced for a moment, stunned by her reconnection to the blinding pain and the steady count as Reverend Ezekiel wielded his whip.

Seventy-three. Seventy-four.

Smiling, Romy went away again. Back to her memories. Into her mind, as far away from the pain as she could go.

• • •

Isn’t she dead yet?

No. Still breathing after a hundred lashes. She’s your daughter, Ephron. Do I finish her?

I don’t know. Mary would rather she were gone.

Mary’s a hot little number.

That she is. You know, Ezekiel . . . we have more young men than women. They are dissatisfied with celibacy.

It would be apropos, wouldn’t it? Might humble the bitch.

(laughter) Nothing will humble her. She’s just like her mother.

Is she, Ephron? Like her mother?

Romy held her breath, alert now, in spite of or because of the excruciating pain, waiting for her father’s answer.

She has never become a wolf. I’m sure she’s tried.

She could be worth good money to us, if she can change. I’ve had an offer. They actually want a breeding pair, but they’ll still pay for a female. One who can change.

It’s not happened. I think she would have run away if she could shift.

Probably true. I say we lock her in the small room off the chapel. Let the women care for her. If she lives, and when her wounds are no longer bleeding, we send the young men to her. It will give them something to look forward to.

Romy faded in and out of the conversation. They were talking about her. She knew that much. They were going to lock her up and give her to the same young men she’d been turning away all these years.

No. That was not acceptable. She tried to pull her arms free but the ropes still bound her to the whipping frame. A moment later someone untied her wrists and ankles.

Her body crumpled and the pain exploded, unchecked now, a fire burning from the top of her thighs to her shoulders. Rough hands threw her onto an even rougher blanket, but she bit her lips until they bled. She would not scream. Never would she scream.

Help me! Please, help me . . .

Her cry was silent, but she felt something.

Someone.

A voice in her head. A voice so much like her mother’s, but not.

Shift, Romy. Like your mother. You are the wolf. Shift, and you can escape into the woods. I think you’ve had enough of the grasses. I’ll help you.

But how? I don’t know how!

Images flooded her mind. Perfect visuals of what she needed to do. It was simple. So very simple. The blanket was moving now. They were carrying her, using it like a stretcher, but she followed the instructions playing so vividly in her mind, reached for that other part of herself.

Reached . . . and found it. Strength flooded her, power like nothing she’d ever experienced. Power strengthened by anger, by pain, and by hope. Snarling, she lunged out of the blanket, snapping at the throat of the man in the back. He jerked away but her teeth caught him, leaving a bloody gash across his chest. Both men screamed. She twisted, finding even more power in this new and unfamiliar body, and took a desperate lunge at the one who was her father.

Snarling, jaws wide, she tore at his throat, ripping flesh, tasting his blood, relishing his frantic shriek and the silence that ended it. She stood over him long enough to know he would never hurt her again, that the other was on the ground, bleeding heavily but still alive. She heard shouts, the sound of men running, and knew there was no time to finish off the reverend. Instead, she raced for the fence, that barrier that had always stopped her, leapt it easily and then ran into the woods, running as far and fast as her lacerated body would allow.

She was a wolf, just like her mother. But unlike her mother, she was free of the bastards who’d hurt her. Free of the lying bastards and the Glorious Salvation in Truth.

Free to run as far and as fast as she was able.

But blood streamed across her back. Pain and bleeding from the deep lash marks in her shoulders, back, and hips would slow her down, make her easier to find.

She headed for the river, though it meant forcing her feet to move over the uneven ground with fire screaming over her back and flanks, but she made it, whimpering softly as the adrenaline wore off and pain rolled across her in waves. She practically fell into the slow-moving water, stumbled and lay in the muddy flow, gasping for breath. She couldn’t stay here, not after leaving a trail of blood that even an idiot could follow, so she dragged herself forward, into deeper water.

It was cool against her flanks, almost soothing the deep slashes, though she knew she was weakening. Loss of blood and the trauma of the beating were quickly taking their toll. She struck out across the river, heading for the far side.

No. Bad idea.
That’s what they’d expect, once they realized she’d come this way. Fighting her growing weakness, she turned and headed east, swimming into the current, against the flow. This direction was more difficult, but she’d die before she’d quit. Romy knew she might not be able to go as far, but they wouldn’t expect this of her.

No, they were men. Men who treated women like cattle, who thought women were stupid creatures, useful only for fucking and making babies. For waiting on them like servants. She’d show them. She had a good mind and a strong heart, and the strength and courage to win, no matter the cost.

The deep slashes across her back burned as her muscles bunched and stretched. Swimming as a wolf had come so naturally, just as running on four legs felt right. She thought of the dirty river water contaminating her wounds, but it was worth it, to risk death by infection or disease rather than submit to the future awaiting her at the compound.

A whore for the young men. Not quite the life she wanted, thank you very much. There was something out here, something better. She just had to live long enough to find it.

But who had helped her? And would she help Romy again?

A voice in her mind, images showing her how to shift. Was that how her mother had learned?

So many questions. So many unknowns.

Who was she? What was she? Definitely not an abomination. And what was Romy’s wolf? Not something of Satan. Not a creature this perfect. This strong and this beautiful.

Struggling against the gentle current, Romy put her worries behind her and found a strong rhythm that had her making better progress than she’d hoped. If she could just get far enough away, they wouldn’t know where to look. Finding one wolf in the forest would take trackers, experienced hunters.

None of the men at the compound had any skills at all, as far as she knew. A few of them hunted deer with big, heavy bows and sharp arrows, but they were stupid. Not experienced at finding, only in killing.

Ignoring the pain and the blood still dripping from her lacerated back, she swam for her life—swam for the first taste of freedom she’d ever sampled in all her twenty-six years.

And here’s an excerpt

from the third book in the

Spirit Wild Series,

Dark Moon

Chapter 1