Awakening: Book 1 of The Summer Omega Series Page 2

  “Please,” Grant said, “my wife only wanted—”

  “Do you remember, Grant, when she chose you instead of me?”

  Her dad went completely still. Shelby could almost feel him searching his mind, plowing through memories nearly two decades old.

  “Nicholas?” he asked, squinting.

  “Tobias was weak,” the man—Nicholas—said. “Too careless with our secret. To forgive you, Grant, for what you brought upon this pack, to let one of our own outside the pack and mother a half-spawn with you, knowing what you were . . .”

  What he was? Shelby glanced at her dad. Does he mean a regular human that mom supposedly chose over him? But no, somehow Shelby didn’t think so. She felt the accusation in Nicholas’s words run deeper than that.

  Nicholas waved a finger back and forth, as if speaking to a child, and made a clicking noise with his tongue. The wind tugged at the hem of his long coat and she heard the golden buttons rustle against each other. “Tobias should have killed you, not forgiven you. I could not tolerate such weakness, nor could our pack. I have rectified that weakness. There are rules, human. I admit you are quite skilled at evading our kind. We had given up trying to track you. Thankfully, you have come here so that we might exact penance for your actions.”

  They searched for my dad? Because of my mom? Her dad’s stories over the past year about Lycans and her mother having been one suddenly felt very abridged.

  Grant drew the knife from its sheath at his back. The six inch blade was heavy and thick, meant for only one type of work.

  “Run,” Grant whispered to Shelby.

  Another howl, this one much closer.

  “Who’s Nicholas?” Shelby whispered. “What’s happening?”

  “Go, Shel.”

  “Daddy?”

  “I promise, we’ll see to her care,” Nicholas said. “Moriahna’s daughter will pay the penance owed.”

  “I do not think so,” Grant said.

  His words carried no bravado or threatening tones, but rather the calm confidence of a father, a warrior, standing between his child and darkness.

  Nicholas shrugged off his coat—definitely something from another age—eyeing Grant with a cold stare as he carefully laid it on the pavement. A loose white tunic remained underneath, something Shelby imagined sailors in the 1700s wearing. Then, he shifted, the remnants of his clothing splitting and falling to the road in tatters and ribbons as his body grew and morphed. In seemingly the blink of an eye, a werewolf, black even in the bluish-white moonlight, bore down on them with menacing amber eyes. A wave of fear nearly paralyzed Shelby.

  With the practiced efficiency of a Delta Force Operator, Grant drew his sidearm with his right hand and brought his left, still gripping the knife, under his right for support. He fired. Shelby flinched at the sound of the gunshot.

  Nicholas dodged to the side just before the bullet struck, chipping the pavement. The ricochet’s twang echoed briefly before dying. Shelby’s nose wrinkled as the acidic citrus scent grew stronger. Two more werewolves, one gray and the other tan, emerged between two vacant houses to their left, sprinting straight for Grant and Shelby.

  Shift! Shelby screamed in her mind. Shift!

  With danger flanking her on all sides, she pleaded fervently with her body to do whatever it had done on the Night of Scars, to do what she knew it could. To change. Shift. Though it terrified her, she needed it now. Desperately.

  Grant’s gun shot two more times before he was violently knocked to the street, falling into Shelby and toppling her to the ground as well. She heard the scraping sound of metal skidding against pavement. The gun, she realized. It had flown from Grant’s hand when he hit. She rolled backward, onto her shoulders, and sprang to her feet, muscles tense with adrenaline. Her eyes started to burn.

  Jaws snapped only millimeters from Grant’s throat, Nicholas on top of him, vying viciously to tear him open. The muscles of Grant’s right arm bulged as he grabbed fur and skin at the werewolf’s chest and pushed hard. With his left arm, he swung the knife at the wolf’s face, but it recoiled too fast. The strike missed.

  Shelby charged Nicholas, eyes stinging but still unable to shift. A rumbling in her chest rose, expanded—yes—but not to the point she needed it to. Her feet felt lighter, her speed increased. And then the rage grew large enough to rival the well of fear within her.

  Almost.

  She was close, Shelby could feel it. The burning in her eyes became unbearable and—

  The other two werewolves hit her before she even got close to Nicholas, claws raking across her back and legs, shredding her clothes and flesh. She screamed, and the terror eclipsed the rage, forcing it into a small corner of her mind. Pain radiated through her. Her vision blurred. And then her dad was there, suddenly, almost magically, spinning, punching, thrusting. One of the wolves howled in pain, a howl that quickly turned to a whimper. Grant dropped the knife, now coated with dark crimson, and hurled the wolf into the same copse she had spotted earlier.

  From the corner of her eye, Shelby saw Nicholas on his side, but coming back to his feet and shaking his head as if to clear it. Shelby’s wounds bled only for a few seconds before beginning to close. The tan wolf clawed at her dad, but he evaded and swiped the dropped knife from the pavement. Jaws barely missed Grant’s back but caught his shirt, tearing it free from his body. Shelby’s eyes seared as she punched the wolf in its side. It yelped, but the strike was not hard enough to make a real difference. It snapped its fangs at her twice and she flinched. It could have easily bit her but didn’t. It turned back to Grant.

  They’re not trying to kill me, she realized.

  “Dad!” Shelby screamed her warning too late. Nicholas sprang, his massive black body sailing unnaturally fast. He landed on Grant’s back, forcing her dad to the ground face down. Grant rolled quickly, trying to get from under Nicholas, but long claws found his back. Nicholas tore Grant’s skin from his shoulder blade to his ribs, ending at the front of his pelvis. Shelby smelled the salty odor of wet iron, and her heart lurched.

  Grant elbowed Nicholas savagely in the snout then stood, his left hand covering the portion of the wound near his stomach. Blood poured down his backside, glistening dark. In his right hand, he held the knife outstretched toward Nicholas. The tan wolf held Shelby at bay, cutting her off every time she tried to run past him.

  She hated herself. She couldn’t shift, couldn’t fight, couldn’t protect her dad.

  “Please stop!” she cried. “I’ll do whatever you want, just leave him alone!”

  “You remember what I taught you?” Grant said, his voice pained. “About shooting?”

  Shelby dropped her eyes. The gun lay four feet from her. She had almost missed it, its black frame blending with the pavement.

  “Aim small, miss small,” she said, jaw quivering.

  Grant nodded, wobbling a bit. Nicholas barked and took a step toward her father, hackles raised, obviously feeling the end was near for his wounded prey. Shelby saw her dad look into Nicholas’s eyes, his gaze turning steely.

  “You were never worthy of Moriahna,” Grant said. “Nor are you worthy of her daughter.”

  Nicholas sprang toward Grant, lips pulled back, exposing long fangs. Shelby dove into a forward roll, snatching the gun mid-roll, and stood with it in hand. She felt the tan wolf lunging toward her, felt its hot breath almost upon her neck. With an eerie calmness, she lined up Nicholas’s body in the sights and emptied the magazine. Nicholas fell to the street, howling and snarling in pain. She knew in that instant that she had not mortally wounded him, silver rounds or not. The tan wolf collided with her a heartbeat later, and they flew then rolled entangled together across the road.

  Swivel, thrust hips, elbow jab to the throat or snout—

  But before she could attack, she felt the wolf’s weight lift from her back. She rolled and heard her dad bellowing. He’d lifted the wolf, no doubt a couple hundred pounds, over his head, then slammed it down on the street. He raised the wolf
, and slammed it again. And again. And again, until the beast fell still with blood running from its ears. In only moments, the wolf became human again. A naked, still form of a young man, not more than twenty. His glassy eyes stared blankly at nothing.

  Grant collapsed to the street, heaving for breath. Shelby rushed to him. His torn shirt, barely hanging on him, soaked up blood that freely ran from his wounds. Nicholas, after struggling to find his feet, sprawled on the street, the holes in him smoking from silver bullets. Nevertheless, the Alpha was regaining his strength. More howls, distant but closing fast, cut the night air. Dull clinks sounded on the road as Nicholas expelled the silver slugs from his body.

  “Dad,” Shelby said, trying to lift him. “We have to go. More are coming.”

  With quivering but strong arms, Grant pushed himself up. Shelby’s hands slid on his red-slicked back as she tried to help him stand. She handed him the Glock, and he ejected the spent magazine then replaced it with a fresh one. He holstered the gun and sheathed the knife.

  “I’m sorry, Shel,” he said with a wince. “I should have known.”

  “No time for that. Move it, Grant!”

  Her dad grinned despite the pain. “You would make a good soldier.”

  The wounds across his back looked like shredded ribbons of red beneath his torn shirt. “I couldn’t shift,” Shelby said. “I wanted to. I tried. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not hurt?” he asked, huffing.

  “Nothing permanent.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter. Let’s get out of here.”

  Shelby ran, doing her best to hold her father up, but he found his gait after only a few strides. She saw him fight through what must be excruciating pain with each bit of movement, but still he ran, though awkwardly, swifter with each step.

  “Did he bite you?” she asked.

  Grant didn’t answer right away.

  What if Nicholas had bitten him? Wouldn’t it be better if he were a Lycan as well? For both of them? Regardless, the thought turned her stomach, her dad becoming like her. A monster. A creature without a soul. Damned. No, she would not wish her condition on anyone. Not even Lucas.

  For him she simply wished death. Even that might be kinder than how she had left him, his face maimed grotesquely from her claws.

  Finally, Grant said, “No. Just scratches. I’ll heal.” He grunted as he brought a hand to his stomach wound.

  Just scratches?! Talk about the understatement of the decade.

  “We won’t outrun them,” her dad said.

  She knew he was right, but still she ran down the lonely road, almost having to pull him along. They passed a pile of PVC and metal conduit. She spied a pipe as long as her arm, she could wield that. But she shouldn’t have to. She should be able to shift and fight!

  Grant’s pace slowed.

  “You have to push through the pain!” she said. “Please, Dad. They’re closer. I feel them!”

  Grant heaved, leaning over with his hands on his knees. He raised his head, sweat glistening as it ran the creases of his forehead. “I know, Shel.” He drew the Glock and started to turn toward the pursuing pack. Nicholas had regained his feet. Though they had fought for every step, she and her dad had only made it maybe a hundred yards.

  “No,” Shelby said, desperate. “No, please!” Hot tears stung her eyes. She wiped them away furiously. “They weren’t trying to kill me. They want me. I can trade myself for your life. Let me try.”

  “They’re not getting you, Shel. You don’t understand. The things they would do to you . . .” Grant shook his head. “Run, baby girl. Daddy’s got this.” He knelt with one knee upon the street, raising the gun with a shaky arm.

  Something broke inside her, a deep sob that she somehow stifled. Perhaps that caused the pain in her chest that made her want to double over, perhaps it was her heart literally bouncing off her rib cage.

  “I can’t. I won’t”

  “You need to, Shel.”

  Two more wolves came into view, each standing taller than Grant’s waist.

  “You’ll be okay, Shel,” her dad whispered. “I know you will.” He drew the knife again from the sheath with his left hand, taking the familiar position that Shelby knew as he brought it under his right hand for support, the tip of the blade pointed toward the approaching pack.

  “No! I won’t!” Shelby cried. “I can’t do this without you.”

  “No time, Shelby. Go!” His voice turned hard, that military edge creeping in.

  The pain in her chest peaked and warmth spread through her like a blanket being unraveled. Then came the cold, a bitterness crawling through her bones. Her joints ached. The world shook as Shelby locked her gaze on the wolves that had come so close now. They growled, snarled, like predators just before the inevitable kill. Though her vision shook and morphed like a kaleidoscope on the edges, the wolves remained centered in her sight, sharply focused.

  Her eyes stung.

  Burned.

  Hotter. Deeper. She reached within for that warmth that had turned to coldness, a well of indignant strength brewing. She knew what it was. I need you. A scream through gritted teeth erupted from her as her grip on that strength faltered. She steeled herself, refusing to let go with her mind. For reasons she could not explain she knew she must hold fast despite the caustic cold that ached in her bones and joints. She screamed again, this time savagely, hearing a second—foreign—voice come from her as well as her own. Even as the blackness crept in from the sides of her seizing vision, she did not relent in holding her eyes—blurring with fury—fixed upon the wolves. Something left her, shot from her, the feeling like a tendon snapping but in her brain. Nicholas, in the lead, faltered in his stride, almost imperceptibly.

  But Shelby saw it.

  She glared more fiercely now, sneering, tasting something new in the back of her throat . . . something awakening within her. Again. The cold in her bones turned utterly bitter and her mind’s grasp on that coldness brittle. Her control slipped, and the coldness surged, enveloping her. The last thing she heard before blacking out completely was another shot from her dad’s gun followed by brutal snarls.

  Two Months Later

  “I don’t know why you think Lansborough will be any different than Odessa,” Shelby mumbled into the crook of her arm as she stared out the passenger window of the old Chevy Blazer. We’re going to end up dead if we keep this up, she thought, but didn’t dare say that out loud, as if saying it would make it true. “What if . . .”

  She looked at herself in the side view mirror without really focusing on her reflection. Her cheek, lightly dusted with mocha freckles, rested in the crook of her arm on the windowsill. Tall shadows, cast by telephone poles in the mid-morning sun, flickered across her face as the Blazer sped past them.

  “What if . . .” Grant prompted.

  Shelby sighed, her stomach tingling. “What if there’s just another Nicholas waiting?”

  “There was . . . history there, Shel.”

  “You think?”

  “Not all packs will be like that,” Grant said. “And watch your tone.”

  “But some will. Be like that.”

  “I wish I could tell you that’s not the case, but you already know that it is. You’ve been sheltered from this world, Shel, and not just because you manifested late. I . . . really thought you wouldn’t manifest. Your mother said it would happen in the early stages of puberty or it wouldn’t. Thirteen at the latest.”

  “So this is her fault?”

  Her dad grimaced.

  “I’m sorry,” Shelby said. “I didn’t mean that. It’s been a very . . . odd year.”

  “Yeah. I know,” her dad said softly. “We just have to find the right pack, the one that will accept me and you, one that will trust me with the secret and not abuse you for your unique standing.”

  Some lame song about being a champion and “roaring” was on the radio. Shelby pivoted more toward the car door in her seat.

  “More like ‘freak’ s
tanding,” Shelby mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, dad.”

  “You always get in this mood when a Christina Perry song is on.” Her dad reached for the radio. “Want me to change it?”

  Shelby actually cracked a small smile, but she tried to hide it from her dad. “It’s Katy Perry, and no. It’s bad but better than that country noise you listen to.”

  “You still a music snob?”

  Shelby shrugged.

  “And you’re defending Katy Curry with that snobbery?” Grant asked.

  “Would you rather I berate James Taylor instead? Go ahead, change it.”

  Grant pulled his hand away from the radio. “No ma’am, we’ll leave Perry on.”

  “So, you do know her name.”

  “You’re offended over me making fun of her name now?”

  Crap. He had her there. And he had gotten her talking when she was so determined to be grumpy! The nerve of her dad to be . . . well, awesome, made her even madder.

  “I still can’t remember,” Shelby mumbled. She knew her dad knew what she meant. Nicholas and his pack . . . her dad avoided questions of that night.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s better that way.”

  “Can you promise this time will be different?”

  Silence. Then, “I wish I could.”

  She was used to the apprehension of moving from town to town by now, a seemingly constant companion of late. She pulled her shoulder-length, sun-streaked brunette hair up, and the air felt cool as it touched the nape of her neck. The numbing drone of the highway had morphed into bumpier vibrations as they turned off the exit. Funny, that word. Exit. It was, in fact, an entrance to yet another unknown.

  “I can still see your scowl,” her dad said. “It doesn’t matter if you turn away from me.”

  “I’m not turned away from you,” Shelby said into her arm. “And I’m not scowling. This is just my face.”

  “You’re scowling.”

  Shelby sighed.

  “Shel, look, I know this isn’t easy,” her dad started, but she didn’t want to hear it anymore.

  She fully buried her face in the crook of her arm now. “Why do I even have to try out for the team? We’ll just be leaving in a few months.”