The pounding in her squished piggy became a dull ache and she stood, staring at the stacked boxes of cans next to her. Stocking shelves sucked. It meant working nights, so she never saw the sun. The pay was laughable, so she couldn’t afford Starbucks for a caffeine boost. And there was little to no interaction with her co-workers, so she was left to talk to herself. She glanced around and, as usual, no one was standing by to witness her accident. With that in mind, she reminded herself that no one was around to witness her making a fool of herself either.
Rotating in a circle reminiscent of Michael Jackson, she created a fake microphone with her hand and crooned, “Food Town. Always pay less so you can buy moooore.”
“Relaxing on the job, Ms. Stone?”
Oh crap.
So much for a lack of witnesses.
Mortification swept through her. She wanted to sink into the floor and die when she heard the reprimand in the store owner’s voice.
Lowering her hand, she spun around. “No sir. I was just…”
Just what? Making fun of his motto? Sticking it to the asshole in the only way I can? Acting like a total idiot because if I see one more can of vegetables I’m going to lose it?
“I was just stretching and keeping flexible.” She lifted her arms above her head and rose onto her toes. “Best to stay loose.”
Hermer Montrose lowered his head and glared at her over the rim of his glasses. She imagined it was the same look he gave to the great-grandchildren he complained about. Although he was as ancient as Rome and suffered from arthritis in both legs, he refused to hire someone else to do his job. He practically lived at Food Town.
Who are you kidding? He’ll die at the Food Town. It’s all the old codger has. They might as well put his plot in the cereal aisle, bury him here and erect a damn monument. Here lies Hermer Montrose: father, grandfather and asshole of epic proportions.
“Do you normally sing when you stretch, Ms. Stone?” he asked briskly and sniffed in distain. “Or were you just trying to…how did you put it…stay loose?”
Good one, you rat bastard, she seethed. Double innuendo for the win.
“That’s from too much American Idol,” she muttered, hoping he wouldn’t question the lie. “The singing sneaks up on me from time to time.”
“Well it’s obviously poison for the brain. In case no one has the heart to tell you, you can’t sing.” He lifted the clipboard he always carried to his face and glanced at it. No doubt going over the inventory she’d yet to put on the shelves. “I suggest you save such antics for your own time. When you’re here, you have a job to do.”
It was so tempting to grab a can and throw it at his face, but she reminded herself that her job was not only safe, it kept her off the radar. She didn’t have the luxury of telling the old fart to go to hell. Mr. Montrose liked to pay his second shift employees under the table so he didn’t have to worry about taxes. If she lost this job she’d have to start using the money she’d received from her dearly departed parents. To add insult to injury, she’d also have to find a new apartment, since she lived in the crap-ola building just behind Food Mart, owned by the ornery old coot. The damn place should have been condemned but she wasn’t complaining. Nothing beat the feeling of security. After surviving hell, she wasn’t willing to go back. Even if it meant her home consisted of walls with cracking paint, floor tiles that were missing and windows that were cracked.
Suck it up, Princess. Lose the quality lifestyle to which you’ve grown accustomed?
Inconceivable.
“Yes sir,” she said cheerily. She held her breath and said a prayer that her acting was better than her singing.
He huffed, turned on his heel and stormed off. She didn’t exhale until he vanished around the corner. Returning to work, she mulled over her dismal existence. Once she’d had dreams—of becoming a teacher, settling down, starting a family and having a house with a white picket fence—but reality wasn’t as enticing or shiny.
Not when you were related to people who wanted to kill you.
A shiver ran down her spine at the thought.
If her uncle found her, he’d force her to endure the atrocities he bestowed on the shifters he believed God had created him and his brethren to destroy. In Elijah Shepherd’s eyes she was nothing more than a loose end, someone to be cleansed of the taint of Lucifer’s creation before she achieved a safe passage to heaven. He’d attempted to bring her into his twisted fold, believing he could make her one of his flock. Her ability to act as if his plan had worked had allowed her an opportunity to escape—an escape that had been obtained in blood.
The memory of attacking the man who’d become her constant shadow—one of her uncle’s closest cousins—flashed in her mind. One focused swing and a kiss from a baseball bat sealed his fate. She’d known she’d have one chance to get away, one opportunity. Although she’d had no choice but to take full advantage when the time came, a part of her had hoped she wouldn’t have to kill in order to do it. Considering where she’d hit John, on the base of the skull—and seeing the white flash of bone after—she was pretty sure he’d never open his eyes again. He’d probably died as he bled out all over the carpet, never regaining consciousness.
It was him or someone innocent. Remember that.
She slammed cans on the shelf and didn’t bother making sure the labels were perfectly aligned. Killing John was horrible but it could have been worse. Elijah had made it clear he’d expected Mary to murder a young woman no older than herself—a young woman whose only crime was being born a shifter—to prove her loyalty and cement a place in the family. Ironically, his ultimatum had urged Mary to action. It had been John’s life or that of the shifter girl her uncle had trapped in his torture chamber. Given the choice of who lived or died, she’d have made the same decision.
Her heart lodged in her throat when she recalled Dara, the woman she’d rescued from certain death several weeks ago. Mary hadn’t expected to exchange names or information but the girl had been so close to the edge, almost at her breaking point. In an effort to soothe the shifter Mary had asked her name. As they’d driven Dara had told her about her capture and the things that had been done to her. Hearing of each atrocity was torture, making Mary’s stomach bunch into knots. If Dara hadn’t managed to get away, death would have been preferable. Shepherds always started with harmless physical torture, enough to inflict harm but not maim or cause permanent damage. It wasn’t until they learned a shifter wouldn’t break that they started removing body parts, gouging out eyes and taking things to the final stage.
She took a deep breath and slowly released it. None of that mattered now. She had money if she needed to run, and more importantly, the gift her parents had left for her. They’d wanted her to retrieve it before her twenty-first birthday to ensure she got out of her uncle’s control before too much damage had been done. The rite of passage to become a true Shepherd occurred when the children in the home reached full maturity—twenty-one, a Shepherd’s magic number. Her mother and father had given her all the information she needed to remain out of sight and hidden from the demented freaks who wanted her dead. The detailed map with a heartbreaking note about her parents’ past, why they ran and why it was so important she do the same were a gift beyond measure. It told her what locations were dangerous, which places were safe and how to avoid Shepherd hotspots.