Moon Tortured (Sky Brooks Series Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  MESSAGE TO THE READER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MOON TORTURED

  by

  McKenzie Hunter

  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.

  McKenzie Hunter

  Moon Tortured

  © 2013, McKenzie Hunter [email protected]

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  ISBN: 978-0-9903441-0-0

  CHAPTER 1

  I looked around the unfamiliar room, acutely aware of the light footsteps below me. This wasn’t the first time I awoke in a strange place, naked and bloodstained. But it was usually in the woods with Bambi’s and possibly Thumper’s mutilated and half-eaten carcass lying next to me. Waking up in a stranger’s house—naked—surrounded by a distinctive male musk was inconceivable. My life just wasn’t that interesting.

  Each time I moved, my body ached against the hardwood floor. I tugged the blanket closer, brushing my sweat-drenched hair away from my face. I slowly came to my feet and looked around the meticulously neat room. The king-size bed across from me was covered by a henna-colored, paisley-patterned duvet that looked like it had never been used. Dark mahogany nightstands were place on each side of it, meticulously aligned with the headboard. Even the bronze gourd lamps on the nightstands were perfectly centered. The room looked like a hotel room but I had a feeling I wasn’t in one.

  Where am I?

  I took a quick look at my reflection in the cheval mirror across from me: my hair was disheveled, a long scratch ran along my right arm, and plum-colored marks in the late stages of healing covered my shoulders and arms. A handprint-shaped bruise wrapped around my calves. I wasn’t sure which was worse—the way I looked or the way I felt.

  The scent of blood and spiced musk inundated and lingered in the large space. The walls were solid and reinforced. They would be damn hard to break through without tools. When the double-paned security windows opened with ease, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was on the second floor. No problem. I’ve jumped from higher.

  Taking a seat on the small accent chair in front of the writing table, I rummaged through the drawers before delivering the same treatment to the dresser, nightstands and walk-in closet. With the exception of the hangers I found in the closet, everything was completely empty.

  I looked out the window. It was late afternoon and the sun would set in a couple of hours. I was surrounded by nearly twenty acres of dense woodland. I assumed I was still in Illinois. For all I knew, I could be in any of the other flat states surrounding it.

  Every visible corner was covered by large masses of trees. There wasn’t a neighbor in sight. If I screamed, it would go unheard. How far would I need to go before I would run into someone?

  I was about the find out. I quickly braided my hair and tucked it into a bun; then I tightened the blanket around me.

  Before I could do anything, I heard light footsteps approaching. Should I stay in the room or see who was coming? I opened the door. It was so thick and heavy it was an effort to open it. That must have been to block out sound. I really wanted to escape.

  I poked my head out and saw him. I could never forget that tense, harsh grimace and predacious movements. Forced to the surface was the memory of him standing in my living room covered in blood, four dead bodies lying at his feet. He killed them so effortlessly and brutally that my only instinct now was to run.

  I considered securing myself in the room, but it locked from the other side. Instead, I darted out the room and down the hall, running past an oddly placed console and sprinting toward the stairs, nearly hitting the rail as the hall came to a dead end. Taking a sharp right turn, I kept running, barely holding on to the blanket. Saving my life trumped Midwestern modesty.

  “Skylar!” His voice was like sandpaper. I continued to run, lunging for the stairs in a frantic rush. But I didn’t make it before a firm grasp yanked at the blanket, pulling me back. Crashing to the floor, I skidded backwards and slammed against the wall. When he reached for my leg, I kicked him. Spinning on my butt, I kicked him again. My legs thrashed out, trying to keep him at bay. It was the same way they showed me in my self-defense class.

  Nothing seemed to deter him.

  His cruel gaze and vicious movements made his declaration that he wasn’t going to hurt me hard to believe. Werewolf strength gave me a physical advantage most of the time, but he had my five-eight frame by at least four inches. His lean sinewy muscles flexed and tightened, holding exceptional power. With one swift movement, he grabbed my legs, immobilizing me, and pulled me into his arms. I was bundled so tightly that the only thing I could move was my head. His movements were so efficient and precise it was obvious he’d done this before—many times before.

  I clawed at his hands. When his hold didn’t give, I bit down into his shoulder, grabbing more t-shirt than skin. I stayed clamped to whatever skin I had, doing whatever it took to keep him from taking me back to that lockable room. Steel-like, corded muscles flexed and distended, making it difficult to keep a firm hold. The unforgiving muscles fatigued my jaw and made my teeth ache but I hung on.

  Pounding down the hall, he seemed unaffected by my teeth embedded into his arm. He tossed me back in the room. When I wouldn’t stop screaming, he leaned over me, “Shut up!”

  I couldn’t. Yelling at the top of my lungs, I hoped someone, anyone, would help. I needed to be heard, to stop him before he did to me what I saw him do to those four other people. He used one hand to cover my mouth and nose. His other hand snapped around my wrists, cuffing them over my head. “Stop it. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have. And you’ve given me more than enough reasons to do so.” His fingers scorched against my skin as sharp, angry eyes demanded silence. Silence that didn’t come easily but instead was whittled into a whimper as I tried to grab oxygen from any space his hands would allow. As soon as I stopped struggling, he removed his hand from my face.

  His hands moved quickly from my wrists to my face, grasping my cheeks, holding my face still. His eyes narrowed as he examined mine. Frowning, he asked, “What—what are you?”

  What was I? He didn’t know.

  I stared at him for a long time, remaining silent, refusing to talk to the man I watched kill so quickly and violently that it would haunt by nightmares for the rest of my life. He studied me inch by inch, crevice by crevice, imprinting my face, features, flaws, and markings to memory. “What are you?” he asked again, his curiosity belied by his aversion.

  “Ethan, get off of her,” commanded a firm, feminine voice from behind him. He stiffened at the sound of the calm, melodic voice. The woman’s face, soft and round with small
patches of freckles decorating her nose and cheeks, looked just as kind and gentle as her voice. Her deep auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail, wisps of bangs angled across her face. Pale brown eyes cast a gentle gleam as she spoke. “Ethan … ” she urged again when he didn’t move.

  He stepped back, taking a position near the door as she inched closer to me. He continued to watch me, his thin lips twisted into a sneer. The glaring way he peered at me with his gunmetal gray eyes, in an odd state between revulsion and aversion, made me feel the decision not to hurt me wasn’t his own.

  Noticing my reaction to Ethan, the woman turned to him. “Give me a moment,” she requested warmly. “Please,” she added when he was slow to respond. He gave me another chilling look before he walked out of the room.

  I came to my feet, securing the blanket around me, keeping my distance from her. “Who are you?” I asked.

  Her lips spread into a warm smile that was disarming and comforting. It was easy to imagine her standing in a classroom surrounded by small children who looked upon her dotingly. “My apologies. I’m Joan.” She pulled up a chair from the corner of the room and placed it in front of me. “Please, have a seat.”

  I remained standing. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in a retreat home.”

  Keeping my focus on her, I stepped behind the chair creating a barrier between us. She was very calming, parrying my skepticism, distrust and anger with ease. Whether intentional or not, she made me feel like surrendering, like an unwary and trusting child. I didn’t like that. “What am I doing at a retreat?” I asked abrasively.

  “I hoped you could tell me.” She lowered herself to the edge of the bed, keeping the chair between us. “Skylar, what can you tell me about last night?” she asked softly.

  The long uncomfortable silence didn’t seem to bother her as she waited for me to speak. I took a seat at the head of the bed. “There was a break-in—four—no five men came after us. It happened so fast, most of it’s just a blur,” I admitted, frustrated. I fidgeted with my braid. "We ran … two men were up there … one grabbed me, the other my mother.” I stopped speaking, unable to go on.

  The images were just erratic blurs bouncing around in my head. I didn’t know what came first or what really happened. I just knew they were fast, strong and hard to evade. It was as though they anticipated every movement I would make. Their movements were so sharp and quick, I felt as though I were shuffling about in slow motion.

  Then Ethan appeared with a massive animal, a large coyote, maybe a wolf, and a tall, dark-haired woman. Chaos ensued. Blood and bodies moved around me so fast that I labored to stay out of the way, to avoid the gore and dismembered body parts.

  Then everything stopped—well, for me it did. The sounds of violence whirling around me―bones crunching, grunts of pain, muscle and tissue ripping―came to an abrupt stop. My mother lay near the stairs, motionless, covered in blood, face pallid, chest stilled. I ran to her and immediately started CPR. I continued for fifteen minutes. Ribs broke under my hands from panicked compressions and my rescue breaths were so hard her chest distending unnaturally. It felt like I couldn’t push hard enough or blow breath deep enough into her lungs. I couldn’t make the life, which I refused to accept was gone, respond. Exhausted and tearful, I finally conceded and accepted the harsh truth: she was dead.

  I was surrounded by three strangers covered in blood, four decapitated bodies, and my dead mother. I didn’t want to be there to dwell in the intense emotions and violence. Escaping in the only way I knew, I changed. Usually I fought her presence but now I welcomed her gratefully because standing in front of my mother’s lifeless body was definitely where I didn’t want to be.

  That is how my wolf functioned. When emotions ran so high that I could barely contain them, it showed up. I was never sure if it was to protect me or to offer an escape or reprieve; nevertheless, it liked to be present when mayhem occurred. At that moment, I didn’t care.

  “They weren’t men,” Joan finally stated quietly. I lifted my gaze to meet hers, waiting for her to continue. “They were vampires. Skylar, why are vampires after you?”

  I had seen the onyx-colored eyes, the fangs and the pale skin, and yet I couldn’t believe what she was saying. I turned into a werewolf every full moon, yet vampires still seemed to be folklore to me.

  Taking in what she said and what I just relived, I did what all sensible people do when someone tells you something horrific, unbelievable and life changing—I ignored and avoided it. “Do you know what happened to my mother? Is she still at the house?” I asked. My voice was a hoarse and my lips trembled. The memory I had repressed so diligently surfaced with a vengeance, winding me: her lying on the floor motionless. Her pale blonde hair, which was usually pinned up, was fanned out around her face. She was frozen in a liminal state of shock and fear.

  There was a long uncomfortable silence. Joan bit down on her lips; troubled eyes gazed at me briefly before they lowered to the ground. “The body is downstairs.”

  The body is downstairs. That same tight feeling that restricted my chest earlier had returned. It was debilitating. Heartbreak, it felt the way I imagined a heart attack would. You can’t breathe, talk or even think straight through the wrenching pain.

  I pressed my eyes firmly together, forcing back tears.

  “Would you like to see her?”

  No, no, I didn’t want to see her. As long as I didn’t see the lifeless body, I didn’t have to accept it. I didn’t—I wouldn’t—I couldn’t see the body.

  When she reached over to touch my hand, I jerked it back. Her eyes roved over the room and periodically she looked in my direction. “Some of your clothes are in there,” she nodded at the bag she brought in with her. “You should shower and get dressed. Maybe then you will be ready to see her.”

  “Where am I, the address?” I asked, peering out the window, briefly appreciating the crowning beauty of the autumn. Being around her was a hell of a lot better than Ethan, but I didn’t trust her.

  “The bathroom is over there,” she said, pointing to my right.

  “The address?” I repeated impatiently.

  Her smile deepened, revealing a small dimple at the corner of her right cheek. “You’re anxious, perhaps a warm shower and food will ease you,” she continued in that soothing voice that people often used with children during their tantrums. “I will be more than happy to answer your questions afterward.” Her insolence was vaguely buffered by the mildness of her voice. It was apparent that until I did what she said, I wasn’t getting any answers.

  “Why do you change locked in a cage rather than the woods,” she inquired before I stepped into the bathroom. Of course they went through my home. Did I really think they wouldn’t?

  She knew what I was and I didn’t have the energy to deny it. I looked over my shoulder. “Because animals belong in cages.”

  The look eclipsed her face so quickly; it was a flash, easily missed. She looked aggrieved, perhaps even offended. “And the sedatives?”

  “It doesn’t like being caged, and I haven’t found a way to put it down without killing me.” I glanced down at my wrist. The years had faded the scar into a thin light line; but it was a constant reminder of how much I hated that part of me. At fifteen, the typical teenage angst, pimples, and a gangly body that didn’t want to cooperate, was further complicated by my horrid transformation into a wolf. The moon called and I responded. My body pulled and contorted to torturous limits, ripping at my humanity until the only thing left was the unfamiliar feral animal—a werewolf.

  I gave in to the depression and the iniquity but it refused to be put down. The only thing I accomplished that night was hurting my mother and realizing I wasn’t as strong as I thought. That night, she vowed to make my life as normal as possible. I changed into a wolf every full moon. How normal could my life be?

  I lifted my gaze to meet Joan’s; it was just a beat as it dropped from mine. She saw the scar where I had slashed my wrist repeatedly
with a silver blade. Too many assaults to the same area prevented it from healing well. It left me scarred with a constant reminder of what I had done. I waited, watching her reaction, anticipating the horror, the intrigue, even the concern. And there it was―concern. The same look my mother gave me when I spoke of the wolf as though it were a separate entity. My mother always wanted me to embrace it, but I couldn’t. As far as I was concerned, it was an unwelcomed guest that showed up once a month despite my objections. It was a plague, a betrayal of my humanity, and I refused to accept or embrace it. Instead, every full moon, I would lie locked in a cage and sedated until it was all over. At least I could pretend my life was my own and I was somewhat normal.

  “I’ll be here with some food when you’re done,” Joan stated with a plaintive smile, which I quickly realized was a mask.

  If taking a shower was supposed to calm me, she was mistaken. Instead, it heightened my anxiety; fight or flight egged me on to respond. On the countertop were my blow dryer, my curling irons, my toiletries, my Sonic toothbrush and my beauty products. I stared at the counter. Yes, these were my things placed neatly on a stranger’s bathroom counter. I rummaged through the cabinets, the linen closet and the medicine cabinet, not quite sure for what. My head was starting to ache as I tried to make sense of this.

  Had I been abducted? If so, they sure were some thoughtful criminals to care about my comfort. I tried to make light of the situation because if I didn’t, I was going to spiral into a panic. The woman who stared back at me from the vanity mirror didn’t make things better. I looked terrible. My thick curly hair was barely contained in the braid. Olive skin that usually looked vibrant was now dull and blanched. Desolate eyes reflected back at me, darkened to the point that they looked jasper rather than emerald. I quickly pulled my gaze from the mirror.

  For a brief moment, I considered fleeing out the small window just above the garden tub. Instead, I sat on the edge of the tub, formulating a plan on how to make an escape. I could go through the bathroom window, but for some reason I felt like I would be met with the angry psycho from my earlier attempt. If I could manage to get past Joan, could I get past the people I heard downstairs? I showered, taking an exceptionally long time; part of me hoped Joan would have given up and left. I opened the overnight bag with my clothes in it and put on a t-shirt and pair of yoga pants. I’ll give it to them: they were oddly meticulous and thoughtful, which should have comforted me, but it didn’t. Weren’t psychopaths and serial killers usually meticulous?