Under My Skin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Under My Skin
COPYRIGHT © 2010 by Tracy A. Belsher
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Leap Books except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information:
[email protected]
Cover Art by
Nicola Martinez
Interior Art by
Val Cox
Leap Books, LLC
Powell, WY
Publishing History
First Edition 2010
E-book Edition 2011
ISBN-13 978-1-61603-010-0
LCCN 2009941503
Published in the United States of America
Acknowledgements
There are many individuals who deserve a brand new, hybrid vehicle in their driveway for their support, advice, hacking, slashing, and handholding while I wrote this book. So here goes…
Thanks to: My father, a man of few words, and my mother who speaks volumes. Blaise and Brenda for the good times, the encouragement, and the sibling dysfunction that I so love. Grandpa Scott who wrote me into the story of his life. Early readers on Critique Circle and other online crit groups – you helped develop my thick, leathery writer’s hide. A howl out to Kitty and Tami for being my virtual sisters and the ultimate critique partners. To Tess for the political correctness cues along the way. Thanks, darling Bev, for all the proofing – and for teaching me how to drive at the ripe old age of 35. You saved my marriage! ;) Jo and Carol, Leeor, Elaine – my ever ready crew of readers. You’re fab and you know it! Many thanks to the staff at Holy Cross for cheering me along, and to all my friends and family who took the time to ask how the writing was going. To Val for bringing my characters to life is such a hip, paranormal way. My editor, Susan, gets hugs and chocolate for beating UMS into submission. Laurie – you’re a goddess for LEAPing into the unknown. Cheers and a beverage of her choosing to Rosemary Clement-Moore for her kickass books and willingness to read UMS. Finally, hugs and kisses to my crazy labs, Higgins and Willow. And an ex-rated embrace to my husband, Shawn, for being my roadie, my BBF, and the finest man I know. Okay, yes, he did come up with a few of the snappy one-liners in UMS. But I’m not telling you which ones. ;)
Praise for Under My Skin
"Under My Skin is a roller-coaster romp through a supernatural world filled with scary beasties, otherworldly magic, and characters you'll root for. Eryn is a tough but likable protagonist whose paranormal problems make a compelling story full of mystery, magic, action and romance. A fun and engaging read. I'm looking forward to the sequel."
~Rosemary Clement-Moore, award-winning author of
Prom Dates from Hell
,
Hell Week
,
Highway to Hell
, and
The Splendor Falls
“Judith Graves sinks claws into you and doesn‘t let go. Her stories overflow with nail biting adventures, hot heroes, and equally tasty villains, not to mention wise cracking heroines you‘ll love.”
~Kitty Keswick, author of
Freaksville
and
Furry and Freaked
“...fans of paranormal YA fiction will appreciate a protagonist with attitude and anticipate the next volume in the planned trilogy,
Second Skin
…
Recommended
”
~
CM Magazine
, The Manitoba Library Association
Chapter 1:
A Little Van Hexing
I ran like my life depended on it.
Maybe it did.
Running kept me sane. The faster my feet hit the ground, the clearer my father’s voice and the more detailed my mother’s face became. My parents lived again in those brief moments when my instincts kicked in and the past hitched a ride on my cross trainers. But when I stopped, the memories faded and left an odd emptiness. Like now.
I laid on more speed. Wind roared past my ears and blasted my hair out behind me, proving why my trademark ponytails were both funky and functional. No matter how intense the run, the hunt, the kill, I never had to stress about a bad hair day. Hey, I was a sixteen-year-old hunter of paranormal creatures. Bad hair was as much of an issue as taking down big bad evil.
And I’d had my share of both. Lecture number 7201 or something—
if flyaway hair obstructs your vision and means the difference between life and death, shave your head
. Oh, my father was full of those hunter tidbits.
I thundered down the mulch-lined trail, crushing pinecones underfoot. Low-lying shrubs, their thinning leaves a patchwork of fall hues, closed in around me, narrowing the trail to shoulder width. Blocked out by thickening woods, the cheerful sunshine no longer glistened on the dew-covered grasses edging the trail. I forged ahead into the gloom. My arms pumped hard as branches sliced at any flesh unprotected by my T-shirt. Tension crept into my shoulders.
Something was up.
Something not so nice.
I did a quick 360, my legs wobbling. Nothing around. But still… I closed my mouth, inhaled through my nose, and trained my sharpened hearing on the woods that engulfed me. Except for fallen leaves rustling in the wind, scuttling across the earth like mice, the woods were quiet. Freaky quiet. The hush that settled over a hunter as his prey strode blithely into range.
Fighting my growing unease, I focused on the wild smells of the forest. Evergreens, sharp and pungent. Rotting leaves. A fox den nearby. I charged down a trail behind Redgrave High, the lead runner in a gym class race.
What was there to be scared of?
In my experience? Plenty.
The eerie quiet triggered my spidey sense. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention and saluted.
Danger ahead, capt’n!
I reached beyond my human limits, tapped into my heightened senses. I tilted my head, nostrils flared. I filtered through the earthy scents of the forest for anything out of the ordinary. Anything
extra
ordinary. The breeze at my back brought him to me.
Werewolf. Four o’clock. Part wet dog, part
I’ve-been-feasting-on-human-flesh-all-night
foulness.
My pulse jolted in my throat. I kept running, eyes forward, scanning the forest, playing it cool for the creature shadowing me.
Why had I let my guard down? Given into my desire for speed and taken such a huge lead? I’d only made it easy for the werewolf to track me. My scent was pure, not mingled with sweat and deodorant and body spray as it would have been if I’d stayed with the group.
Now, the werewolf knew I wasn’t quite human. Nope, I was something
much
more interesting...and tasty. If the deep growl behind me was any indication, he thought I was definitely worth a closer look.
Careful what you wish for, furball, this is one meal that might bite back.
Launching into the air, I grabbed a thick branch arching about eight feet over the trail, pulled my knees to my chest, and swung my body high. The werewolf ran under me like I was a matador’s cape. He shook his shaggy head, letting out a burst of enraged huffs as he struggled to slow down. Werewolves were so uncoordinated. Half man, half beast, their scrambled brains and morphing bodies didn’t always work in unison.
I scampered up until I was perched among the branches. Slack-jawed, chest heaving, I sucked in gulps of air. Below me the beast paced back toward the tree, grunting and growling.
Thankfully werewolves weren’t climbers. The big bad would never get me up here. I hoped he wouldn’t try to ram the tree trunk to knock me out. I hated when that happened.
Safe for the moment, I peered down at the ghoulish, bulbous shapes outlined under his fur. This was no proper change from man to wolf, like with my species, the wolven. Wolven were born, not made. We were paranormal, sure, but still a part of nature, a natural occurrence. Werewolves, not so much. Created with dark magic, their humanity died the moment they were turned. Whoever made this werewolf hadn’t taken any time to give the poor thing a few paranorm life lessons.
His bones kept shifting, as if he were uncertain which form to assume, man or beast. Raw patches of leathery human skin appeared all over his body as he molted and then grew black fur over and over. Shapeshifters often took years to control their abilities—if they didn’t go stark raving mad first. This one was a newbie. Making stupid mistakes. No self-control. Sloppy.
Did my new buddy have any friends? I scanned the woods. Surprisingly, there was no hint of other weres. No dark shapes pacing in the shrubbery. Highly unusual. Werewolves worked in packs, serving under a more powerful paranorm, like a vamp or demon. According to the Council, Redgrave was paranorm free. So this werewolf must be a rogue. Whatever he was, his presence didn’t totally shock me. After all, if there weren’t any rogues in the paranorm world, my father and his hunters would have been out of jobs long ago.
How was I going to get myself out of this one? I was in gym class, for god’s sake. I couldn’t stay in this tree forever. And in my sweats and T-shirt, I was hardly prepared to duke it out with a werewolf. I didn’t have a bit of silver on me.
But
he
didn’t know that.
Like my dad always said, when you’ve got nothing, act like you could care less. I let go of the branch, dropped to the ground, and straightened to my full height, my feet firmly planted, my stance confident.
“Scouting for prey in the middle of the afternoon?” I asked as if amused by his folly.
He staggered toward me, tilting his massive head, apparently questioning my sanity. His grizzly snout trembled, a thick line of drool hung from his jowls. Clearly, he expected to make quick work of me.
I held my ground, chin high. “Let me guess, you’re one of those early-bird-gets-the-worm kind of werewolves, right? Too bad I always carry my trusty athame with me.” I patted the back of my sweats for effect. “The blade is solid silver.”
His ragged ears flattened back against his head, his steps faltered.
“Yup,” I breezed, “it’s an oldie but a goody, at least three hundred years old.”
The beast shuddered. Ahh…now I had him. With ritual daggers, the older, the better. All the more infused with magic. And a silver athame would be extremely deadly.
So deadly, even I wouldn’t be able to hold it if my father hadn’t forged a rosewood hilt to protect my hands. Silver was deadly to werewolves and wolven alike. For me it wasn’t so bad—being half human gave me some immunity, but the blade could do serious damage if I wasn’t careful. I’d had more than my share of nasty silver burns during my training in wielding the dagger.
The werewolf’s glowing, freaky red eyes narrowed as I moved my hand to my back again as if to grasp a dagger tucked into my sweat pants.
“Did I mention it was cursed?” I kept my tone light and conversational. We were getting to be good buds, me and the beast. “Yup, by a Dutch witch, and we all know how potent they are. Nothing like a little
Van
Hexing
for good measure.”
The werewolf snorted. The scent radiating from him told me that, though he was new, he understood an athame’s power. Interesting. If he’d seen one before or had been warned about them, maybe this town had some witchy action going on. So much for Redgrave—the small, super-duper
normal
town Sebastian had sent me to live in—being off the paranorm map.
“Quit your huffing. It won’t do you any good.” I grinned as I brought my hand up as if to wield the dagger. “Hold still, this won’t hurt a bit.”
The werewolf’s molt-laden ears twitched, but he didn’t move.
Damn
. I really wished I
had
brought the athame. The way it sliced and diced. Why had I tucked it under my mattress for safekeeping? I’m sorry, how could it keep me safe
there
when the danger was
here?
I wouldn’t leave home without it again, but seriously I never expected to need a weapon in Redgrave. Huh, I’d gone less than a week before the first paranormal disaster came stalking my heels.
