Framed
Authors: Amber Lynn Natusch
FRAMED
by
Amber Lynn Natusch
Version 1.0
Copyright © 2012 Amber Lynn Natusch
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN-13:
978-0-9849464-1-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
Published by Amber Lynn Natusch
Cover Design by Jamie Rosen
Editing by Jennifer Ryan
More by Amber Lynn Natusch
The Caged Series
CAGED
HAUNTED
FRAMED
SCARRED
FRACTURED
STRAYED*
BETRAYED*
*working titles
Coming Soon:
The UNBORN Series (Caged sister series)
The Light and Shadow Trilogy (YA Fantasy)
See More Including Release Dates:
To all my crazy uber-fans—because I know you all have a little Scarlet in you!
An apology to my character, Ares:
I’m sorry for misspelling your name in Haunted. It was an epically blonde moment on my part, but rest assured that my high school Latin teacher of five years is shaking her head and cursing my name (as she often did), because of my oversight.
Prologue
The faceless man approached town from the west, circling the outskirts, stalking and surveying his surroundings. He moved swiftly and stealthily—first through the trees, then the neighborhoods, then the tall downtown buildings. His anxiety was palpable, his mind uneasy as he frantically looked for what he sought. His heart raced with anticipation; his love was the hunt. It drove his every move—occupied his every thought. As he skulked through the cobblestone streets, he repeated one thing over and over again, “I will have my revenge.”
He froze when he locked in on his target. The young brunette turned down a narrow alley deeply shadowed and seldom traveled. He held his breath as he followed, inching towards his unknowing prey. A satisfied smile spread wide on his face just before he struck.
He played with his meal at first, tearing her vocal cords to silence her, ensuring nobody would be alerted to the fun he was having. Killing was more than an act to him; it was intimate, sensual. He relished every moment from the take down, to the final blow, celebrating the conquest with his eyes.
They burned with delight.
The fire died when the life left her eyes—a look of disappointment tainted his expression. He roared so loudly the buildings quaked as he tossed the body effortlessly into a dumpster. His breathing came shallow and erratic. His anger and adrenaline cocktail did little to improve his image; he looked savage, feral.
Werewolf.
The sound of a can rattling down the adjacent street turned his attention my way. He charged down the alley, furious that his private moment had been violated by an onlooker. He searched, but found nothing.
He could not see me.
Sniffing at the air, he caught a scent he deemed worthy to follow. He ran with blistering speed through the empty streets, past familiar buildings, until his tracking brought him to a typical New England brownstone. He entered easily, climbing to the second floor, taking four stairs at a time. He passed unnoticed through the front door, then the living room, then down the hall. He pressed the door gently open before sliding into her room and quietly closing it behind him. Creeping toward her bed, his feet rolled from heel to toe soundlessly. She slept face up, posed like the dead, with hands laced elegantly atop her chest. He eased himself onto the edge of her bed, taking every precaution not to move her before leaning in as if to kiss her.
His breath on her face awakened her; her ice blue eyes shot open instantly.
“I will have my revenge,” he told her, his face barely an inch away from hers, “I will have my revenge...Ruby.”
As he bared his fangs, she screamed.
* * *
I shot up, fighting my tangled mess of bedding as if it were the enemy—the shrill sound of my cries still echoing in the darkness. My clothes were drenched in sweat. As my lungs begged for air, my heart threatened to escape my chest, pounding violently against it. The dream had seemed so
real
.
Cooper crashed into the room, startled but prepared for a fight.
“What is it?” he shouted, eyes wild. “What's wrong?”
Disengaging from the comforter, I stood shakily as I struggled to speak without any oxygen to spare. My dire expression pleaded for help, though the words were absent. He, in return, silently eyed my unraveling state before scenting the room. His growl erupted low and threatening, and initially I thought it was the source of the breeze I felt sweep across my body, causing me to shudder.
The tiny dance of the curtain at my bay window told me I was wrong.
The sash stood slightly ajar—it had been closed when I went to sleep. My chest tightened further as my fear compressed it, and I gasped for air while two barely audible words escaped my lips.
“He's coming.”
1
“Are you sure your mom is okay with this?” I asked Peyta for the fiftieth time. She rolled her eyes in the way that only teenage girls can.
“Yes, Ruby. And if you recall, I
am
eighteen now. I do get a say in what I want.”
“I think your mother would greatly disagree with that,” I muttered under my breath.
“I heard that,” she said, continuing to look annoyed. “Normal human hearing notwithstanding.” My werewolf status was still a novelty to Peyta, and she relished every opportunity to bring it up, or use it against me, depending on the situation.
“Fine,” I conceded. “So you want to work here full time, do you? Better go fire up Quickbooks then because you have bank statements to input for me...eight months’ worth to be exact.”
The groan-heard-round-the-world came out of her sprite-like body as she slumped to the backroom.
“I thought I'd get to do something
cool
,” she grumbled on the way.
“Numbers
are
cool, Peyta. Didn't you learn that in math?” I retorted. She said nothing in response as she closed the door behind her. I loved having Peyta around the shop and keeping her on full time was going to afford me much freedom.
Peyta had come to work for me when her mother, Ronnie, a.k.a. my vintage clothing supplier, left town for an emergency a few weeks earlier. I was nervous about taking her in at first, but, in hindsight, it couldn't have made me happier—I gained a little sister. Because my newfound sibling was such an excellent student, she finished her course load and had essentially graduated early; she was just waiting to walk with her class. She chose to spend that time working and apprenticing at my shop, and I was thrilled—Cooper was too. He doted on Peyta like a sister as well.
I wasn't convinced her mom was thrilled with the idea of Peyta working for me since she had only recently found out about my lupine status, as well as Cooper's. She was none too happy that our pasts had put her daughter in grave danger. I couldn't really blame her for that one; I wasn't happy about it either. Needless to say, things with Ronnie and I were tense at best, and I didn't want to rock the boat any further. She allowed Peyta to come around me because she saw how happy it made her. It didn't mean she had to be pleased with it.
“Where did you put the bank statements? I've looked everywhere for them!” Peyta asked, poking her head around the door.
“They're in the pile on the desk.”
“Have you
seen
your desk? There are
several
piles on it, all of which have achieved skyscraper status,” she replied sarcastically. “Any suggestions?”
“Um...have fun?” I said, shrugging.
I avoided accounting like the plague. My filing skills were lackluster as well. “Maybe you should work on straightening up the desk first, then worry about inputting the statements.”
“Ugh, I'm sorry I asked,” she said as the door swung abruptly to a close.
“I do love disgruntled employees!” I yelled over my shoulder as I headed for the door. “I'm going to grab snacks. Perhaps I'll get you some caffeine and sugar to improve your mood, though that may not be possible since you are a teenager.”
Her unfriendly response was muffled by the closed door behind me. I giggled aloud to myself knowing that I'd gotten under her skin; having a sister was fun.
I strolled through the streets of downtown Portsmouth, NH to the local bakery. I loved everything about seacoast living: the air, the buildings, the food, and the vibe; I soaked it in whenever I could. As I made my way there, a flash of yellow from an adjacent alley caught my eye. I peered down the narrow corridor to see the remnants of some police tape flapping wildly in the breeze. Its dance was mesmerizing and strangely beautiful, which was in stark contrast to the disturbingly gory reason for it being there.
This is where it was...
I squeezed my eyes shut trying to block out the vision I'd had of the brutal murder and briskly walked away. I made it two steps before I ran into a pedestrian in my botched attempt to escape my memory.
“Sorry!” I said, clinging to the man's arms for stability. “I wasn't paying attention.”
“You okay?” he asked as I let go of his jacket, having finally steadied myself. I looked up to see a thirty-something year old officer in full uniform looking back at me.
“Fine, officer. I'm fine,” I said, betraying my true uneasiness as I sneaked a glance back down the alley.
“It's a shame about that woman,” he said without prompting. “We're going to find who's doing this.”
I said nothing while staring at the yellow tape affixed to the dumpster, now barely moving as the breeze faded. The image of the young woman screaming played on a loop in my mind. I needed brain bleach.
“Miss?” he asked, seeming concerned about my mental state. “Do you know anything about that murder? Was she a friend of yours?”
“No, Sir,” I replied softly. “I just can't get it out of my mind. I never put together that this is where it happened. It took me off guard. I'm really sorry about bumping into you, Officer.”
I sidestepped him politely and continued on my path.
“Officer Beauchamp. Alan Beauchamp,” he said, tipping his hat slightly to me.
“Ruby,” I replied. “Nice to meet you, Officer Alan Beauchamp.”
* * *
I returned to the shop about thirty minutes later to find Peyta in the back with papers strewn about everywhere.
“If this is your idea of a filing system, then we really need to talk,” I said in jest. “And that's pretty bad coming from me.”
She sighed dramatically before turning her dainty face to me.
“I'm attempting to organize these things into categories and then file them,” she replied wearily. “You
do
know that's how this works, right? You don't just shove it into a file and classify it as 'filed'.”
