Moon Tortured (Sky Brooks Series Book 1) (20 page)

The next morning, I knocked softly on Sebastian’s door, partly hoping that he wouldn’t answer. “Yes, Skylar,” his cold edgy voice answered through the closed door. I stepped into the office; when he looked up briefly from his computer, he cast a look so cold and remote it felt like I hugged a glacier.

“How are things going?” I asked politely, shutting the door behind me.

He sighed a ragged breath, “I don’t like small talk. Get to the point.”

You don’t like being polite either.

“I realize things have been a little hectic around here, and the last time … ”

“The point, Skylar.” It was an odd paradigm that such soft brown eyes could pull off icy and unwelcoming with such ease. Mr. Congeniality waited impatiently; his intriguingly beautiful face became a pleasing distraction as I considered how to deal with the impolite wolf.

“I need to get something from my house.”

“What?”

“It’s personal.”

He sat back in his chair, his lips tightening, the muscles twitching around his clenched jaw. “Then I’m sure it can wait.” He returned his focus back to his computer.

I exhaled exasperated, my patience a thread on the brink of breaking. Back at my house may be the very thing that could tell me why I was such an anomaly, why I was a werewolf with a
terait
whose sergence was so wrong a necromancer wanted me dead. “I can assure you that if it weren’t necessary, I wouldn’t be here. It is important.”

He studied me; deep, penetrating eyes roamed over me, ending where everyone else’s did—the corner of my eye. That part of me that separated me from being
just
a were-animal and being an anomaly that apparently shouldn’t exist. “Okay, I’ll have someone take you.”

“Can that someone be Steven?”

“No.” He quickly returned his attention to his computer. When I stayed planted, he glanced up. “Did you need a goodbye or something?”

I turned on my heels to leave, wisely deciding to keep my sardonic response to myself.

“I am sure you know Nathan tried to kill me yesterday,” I stated, glancing over my shoulders.

He nodded slowly, “Necromancers are often prone to overreacting to anything that is different,” he admitted. “I could understand his reaction if he had spent a couple of days around you. You seem to bring that tendency out of people,” he stated with a smug grin. Great, the Alpha made a joke. Isn’t he clever? He had remained borderline rude and inhospitable since I’d been here. The one time he chose to hold a conversation with me, it’s to say I am annoying. He was hilarious. When I didn’t find the humor in his comment, his smile slowly transitioned into a smirk.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about what he saw?” I turned to face him. It was my turn to watch, to analyze. But he was indiscernible; his strong features and primal confidence remained stoic. Whether he was concerned or not, I couldn’t tell. If he feared what I was, it remained a mystery.

“I trust Josh. He’s not very concerned, so there is no need for me to be.”

“Why do you protect my life when it would be so easy to end it?” I asked, surprising even myself with the statement.

He looked thoughtful, but I didn’t get the impression he was considering my question. “Easy isn’t the pack way. I would never take the life of a were-animal on the suggestion of a necromancer or anyone else other than my were-animals,” he stated in a serious tone. “I am held to the laws of the pack as well. I have no cause to kill a lone-were-animal that hasn’t harmed the pack or violated any of our laws. We aren’t murderers. You’ve never been extended a pack invitation; I am obligated to protect you. Just because it has been a rather daunting task doesn’t negate our responsibility to do so. As long as you are not a threat to us, you are protected.”

That sounded wonderful, even benevolent, if I ignored the fact that I was safe as long as he didn’t see me as a threat to his pack. If things changed, then so would the value they placed on my life. “I appreciate all you have done, though at times it hasn’t seemed that way,” I admitted in a low voice.

His gaze wavered in my direction for a few moments. “Goodbye, Skylar.”

An hour after speaking with Sebastian and being treated to his brand of hospitality and geniality, I sat next to his Beta, who must have attended the same finishing school. The vast space of the Range Rover was filled with the sound of music playing loudly. An angsty and deeply troubled male singer crooned his raspy voice over the sounds of guitars and drums. It was an inept attempt to fill the uncomfortable silence that existed constantly between Ethan and me. While I looked out the window, ignoring the harsh and uncomfortable silence between us, his fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel. It wasn’t to the beat of the music. The drumming of his fingers was in perfect sync with the erratic beating of my heart. He had succeeded; my discomfort around him had escalated to a physiological level.

Occasionally he glanced in my direction. The few times our gaze met, his attention went directly to the corners of my right eye. “If Nathan hadn’t attacked you, would we be doing this?” he asked as we neared the house.

“I don’t know.”

“I asked you not to lie to me,” he stated impatiently.

“No.”

“What do you plan to gain from obtaining these
personal
items? The wheels are in motion; it won’t change anything, Skylar.”

“I know.”

“Then why waste my time?” he asked sharply.

We were in front of the house now. I briefly looked at him and the longing hit me. I missed my mom, I missed my home and I missed my old life. “Ethan, I would never choose to waste your time. Any issues you have with being here should be taken up with Sebastian. I never asked for you to be my escort,” I stated firmly as I got out of the car.

When I considered going back to the house, it never dawned on me how emotionally daunting it would be. Smelling my mother’s scents, seeing the things, feeling her absence in the house was too difficult to handle. My hands were trembling by the time I placed the key in the lock; I could barely unlock the door.

Her scent was subdued by the smell of household cleanser. Someone had cleaned the house. The broken furniture had been removed, and the corner where my mother lay bleeding to death—not less than eight days ago—was now spotless.

“Who came back here?” I asked, looking around the room.

“Josh. He put up a ward that restricts vampires and others from entering your home without invitation. There is a similar one on the retreat.”

I had lived in the house all my life, and now I felt like a stranger in it. It seemed so long ago that I loved this home. It was where I wanted to be. When young adults were running from their childhood home like the place was on fire, I was running to mine. For the first six months after graduation from college, I spent more time visiting my mom than I did at my place. Eventually, I gave up the charade and moved back home. I didn’t think I could ever call this place home again.

I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing that were enough to make me feel safe here. “I have to go upstairs,” I informed him, needing an escape from the room. He nodded, taking a seat on the couch.

I went to my mother’s bedroom but loitered in the hallway for several minutes, dredging up the nerve to go into it. Her scent and presence lingered throughout bedroom, making it hard to breath. I struggled to keep my bundled emotions from unraveling at that moment. I promised myself that I would come in, get what I needed and leave. It was much harder than I expected. The sorrow pulsated through me. Before I could get a hold on it, I was sitting on the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.

Ethan stood at the door, staring at me. He looked uncomfortable, lifting his eyes briefly to meet mine before dropping back to the floor. Fidgeting with his pockets, it seemed as though he were looking for something to say or rather the right thing to say.

“I’m sorry. I thought this would be easier,” I admitted between sniffles. He stared at me in silence, his face blank. He left and returned with a box of tissues. He handed it to me and assumed his position by the door, his focus on his feet, glancing up periodically. “May I have a few minutes?” I asked.

“Of course.” He sounded relieved. He trotted down the stairs then backtracked to the room. There was a subtle solace about him as he approached me. His hand rested on my leg as he knelt in front of me. “We should come back another time when you can handle this better,” he suggested gently. “It’s okay. I won’t mind bringing you back later.”

I shook my head, trying desperately at a smile. “I’m fine.” His eyes narrowed at the lie. “I will be fine. I just need a few minutes,” I admitted. He nodded without hesitation and quickly backed out of the room.

It took about thirty minutes, but eventually, I was composed enough to do what I came to do. I pushed myself up from the bed and went over to the bookcase, searching for my mother’s journals. I hoped they could answer why I had an odd ring around my right eye that liked to play peek-a-boo. But if nothing else, they could at least provide me with some answers to my birth and fill in the missing blanks of my childhood.

My mom kept meticulous journals about me. She had chronicled everything from what foods gave me nightmares to what months led to my worse changes. I never understood why and some part of me felt like I was some huge research project to her because of it. But she was a researcher. She had a tendency to keep careful records on things that others would have ordinarily found to be a waste of time and energy. Once, during one of our few arguments, I made mention of it. I accused her of only wanting me around to observe me like a freak in a controlled environment. It was also one of the few times I made her angry: one, for referring to myself as a freak and two, for accusing her of wanting me for any other reason than the fact she loved me. I wasn’t sure if she had stopped keeping the journals, but she never made it obvious that she had. Now, I hoped that she hadn’t.

The journals were tucked away in a small footlocker in a corner of her walk-in closet. There were twenty-two books there and one in her nightstand, incomplete. Opening the 15th journal, I leafed through the pages, reading her barely legible string of loops and curves. The words “peppermint house” caught my attention, producing the suppressed memory of the one-time visit we made right after my initial change. The visit was a bust. The woman of the house took one look at me and stated, “The change had begun.” She didn’t elaborate other than to state that my new form had begun the process. Duh, I was turning into a wolf every full moon; yeah, the process had definitely begun.

I remember my mother making jokes about how unhelpful the visit was. Now I wondered whether the women possessed more knowledge behind her words. Maybe we should have probed more, asked the right questions. I think we were too scared to ask the right questions, too afraid of what the answers might have been if we had. We never went back nor expressed the desire to do so.

I grabbed the first five journals and the fifteenth during the year of my change and put them in my bag.

Ethan sat idly on the sofa. Sensing my presence, he turned to face me. His often tense features seemed to soften; he looked genuinely concerned. “Everything okay?”

I nodded, walking toward the door. He followed close behind.

“I need to go to this address,” I informed him in the car, handing him a piece of paper.

He frowned, looking down at the paper. “Why?”

“I think she can help me.”

He looked down at the paper again and shook his head. “That’s not a good idea.”

I sighed. I didn’t feel like going through this again. Every time I spoke with Ethan or Sebastian, I felt like I should have an opening statement, defense and closing argument. “Ethan, I can’t do this with you now,” I wearily acknowledged.

“Then don’t.”

I rested my head against the headrest and sighed heavily. “I am not asking permission nor will I.” It wasn’t my intention to come off rude, but I was tired of being controlled. There was protection, and then there was blatant disregard for my autonomy.

“I won’t let you do this,” he stated in a dry, uncompromising tone. The harsh lines of his face returned. The Ethan who was concerned, understanding and easily flustered by the show of emotions had left the building, and the rigid, controlling, pithy Ethan had returned.