When you couldn’t destroy Shepherds, you hid from them. Period.
It was the only reason she’d chosen to reside on the border of Florida and Alabama. Of the numerous areas Shepherds resided, they avoided state lines. There was too much danger, too many risks. They thrived in rural areas where their practices remained hidden, needing isolation to ensure they wouldn’t be caught killing shifters who looked like normal men and women.
A surge of anger had her slamming a can down on the shelf. The entire ordeal pissed her off. After her mother and father had met, fallen in love and decided to marry, they’d had no choice but to run. Their decision had placed a target on their backs, something they’d never have been able to escape. Her parents had tried to avoid her father’s side of the family from the moment they said “I do” and embarked on a new life together. She remembered moving from place to place—an adventure, her mother used to say—only to do more of the same after a couple of months. Only recently did she learn the real reason her folks had been so determined to stay one step ahead of the killers they’d known were tracking them.
Her father hadn’t wanted to raise a family in the crazed lifestyle he’d been forced to experience as a child. Instead he’d chosen to take an enormous risk. The day he’d left his family, forsaking their ways, a bounty had been placed on his head. You didn’t abandon Shepherds. You lived by their rules or you died by them. Her mother had known everything about her father’s family, which meant she’d been in danger as well.
That thought brought even darker, more difficult memories to the surface.
Mary often wondered why her relatives had asked so many strange questions after her parents died. They hadn’t seem concerned about the fire that ravaged her home, the demise of her mother and father or the investigator’s suspicions that the blaze seemed to have been more than an accident. Instead they had wanted to know how much she knew about her distant family.
Had her mother and father told her about them? What church did she attend? Was she religious?
The questions had been strange, incredibly awkward and, in light of recent events, made perfect sense. Had her relatives discovered she’d known more than she should have, she might have joined her parents on the other side. When her uncle discovered she had no idea about his family or their beliefs, he’d brought her home and kept everything secret. For five years she’d had no idea of the atrocities taking place several yards away in a building that was carefully soundproofed. She had gone about her days as a normal girl.
Perhaps she should have noticed the odd sermons on Sundays. The way the pastor had remained fixated on the demons existing in the open, in plain sight.
Demons…
Her thoughts drifted to the man Elijah had proclaimed a demon, a person her uncle had stated was more beast than man. On the outside he had appeared normal—if you considered tall, dark and gorgeous normal. He was older than her by several years, and his confidence and easy manner had called to her in a way she’d never experienced before. Leaving home to attend college meant she was finally able to appreciate the opposite sex. For the longest time however, men had remained a mystery to her. Although she’d watched them, she’d never spoken to or approached her testosterone-fueled classmates. She was too shy, too uncertain. It wasn’t until she’d walked into the campus coffee shop that a man had approached her and changed her life forever.
Closing her eyes, she pictured his face.
Emory Veznor.
The first thing she’d noticed was his voice. The sound had been like coarse gravel over satin—deep and throaty but lush as velvet—as he’d touched her shoulder and murmured, “Excuse me.”
As she’d turned to address him, she’d gotten a full-on view of six-foot-plus model-material male. His dark hair was just long enough to wrap around his ears and drape across his forehead. The shadow along his jaw and chin matched, almost an ink black. And his eyes—the color of expensive whiskey shining through fine crystal—made her heart skip a beat. He was beautiful enough to grace a billboard, although his rough edges had made her think of motorcycles and leather.
At first she’d thought she’d misunderstood him. She’d seen his lips move, had known he was talking to her, but it had taken several seconds to realize he wasn’t asking her to step aside so he could retrieve his coffee. Instead he’d asked if she would like to share a table and chat. He had grinned when she didn’t answer—creating a fuzzy warmth in her tummy. She’d thought she was dreaming until he’d asked a second time and all she could do was nod.
The first guy to notice her had been one she would never have dreamt would be interested in someone like her. Dressed in her usual flowing skirt, matching shirt and Keds sneakers, she hadn’t compared to the man in snug jeans, black biker boots and chain that ran from his belt loop to the wallet in his back pocket. Her hair had been left loose that day and flowed down her back in a tangled mass of blonde, framing a makeup-free and totally natural face. Usually the combination worked for her but beside Emory she had looked like a windblown hood rat.
If he’d been aware of her insecurities, he hadn’t let on. When they had their java in hand, they’d traveled to a booth and sat across from each other. Within minutes a smooth, casual conversation had started. Emory had been polite, hanging on to every word that had passed her lips. She’d blushed at his intense stare, which seemed to slip past her face and into some deeper recess inside that she wasn’t aware of.
One conversation had led to another, then another, and finally resulted in a date—a date that had ruined her life and possibly ended his.
The thought that he might be dead hurt her in ways she didn’t want to ponder too deeply, but she couldn’t help herself.
Was Emory alive? Had he managed to make it out before her family destroyed him?
Humiliation and regret assailed her. She’d been too afraid of what Emory was to stick around and plead for his life. When she’d witnessed the claws that extended from his fingers and the way his face had changed shape, she’d screamed, backed away from him and then…
You ran. That’s what you did. Like a coward. And look what it got you. A drab life in a no-name town doing something you hate. If he’s not dead, he’ll detest you. He told you he had secrets, things he wasn’t ready to share. You were the one who wanted to know everything about him. The minute he showed you what he truly was, you lost it and turned your back on him.
She sighed and shook her head. Emory might have scared her—terrified her—but deep down some part of her had known he’d never hurt her. Each time she thought about the way she’d treated him when he’d changed before her eyes—the way she’d looked at him, the way she’d screamed in horror—she died a little on the inside.
During her time at the farm, when her uncle had tried to bring her into his sick and twisted flock of followers, she’d learned a lot about shifters. They’d watched her with curious stares, as if they could tell she wasn’t a threat. Her uncle had tormented them but she’d always looked away, unable to bring herself to watch. Determined to do something, she’d staged a plan to release the shifters who were captive in the large building on the back of the family property. Even after she’d set the shifters free they’d never touched her or displayed any sign of aggression. They’d simply took the gift for what it was, running for their lives.