The Trouble with Beasts (Howl for the Damned: Book One) Read online

  THE

  TROUBLE

  WITH

  BEASTS

  HOWL FOR THE DAMNED

  BOOK ONE

  BY D. FISCHER

  The Trouble with Beasts (Howl for the Damned: Book One)

  Copyright © 2020 by D. Fischer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any printed or electronic form, without written consent from the author. This book is fictional. All names, characters, and incidents within are pure fiction, produced by the author’s vivid imagination.

  I dedicate this book to those who are blessed to be different.

  Everything in this book is fictional. It is not based on true events, persons, or creatures that go bump in the night, no matter how much we wish it were…

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  “Those who have one foot in the canoe, and one foot on the shore, are going to fall into the river.” —Tuscarora Native American Tribe

  PROLOGUE

  Jinx Whitethorn

  The smog is thick. It coats my nostrils with the wretched stench of burning oils that are made and puffed by the factories stationed at every turn. My lungs burn. Cramps are nestled between my ribs. My breathing is too quick to suck in enough fresh and clean air where there is none. Not in this wretched area of the city, and especially not when I’m running for my life.

  My long black hair is loose and whips the side of my sweaty face, stinging as I round another corner. One mantra is being chanted in my head: Run. Run. Run. It’s the only thing I can concentrate on because if I focus on the burning in my chest, I worry I’ll break my determination in surviving this shit. There is no resting. There can’t be because my pursuer’s feet echo against the cement, not far behind me. His shoes patter against the cracked and uneven sidewalk in a steady drumming beat. Every second, the beat gets louder, closer.

  Off in the distance, a constant song of police sirens sing, but not for me. Nobody knows I’m in need of saving. It’s the price of being alone where, if I don’t survive, no one will know I’m dead for several days.

  The humans don’t know beasts of legends exist. I am one of those legends. Sort of. My pursuer is one of those legends, too, and I know deep in my bones that my own survival rests on my own shoulders.

  Each puff of factory smoke lingers in the breezeless atmosphere. It’s an area burdened with poverty. Rust paints the tale of age, and the weeds as tall as hips proclaim years of neglect. It’s also an area where no one looks for anyone. No cops come here. No passersby would ever help the helpless here. It’s an unspoken rule that no one even comes out of their homes once the sun goes down. A person should never wander alone in this area, especially a woman; a woman who knows she’s being hunted.

  It’s a crumbling, unkempt jungle crawling with predators in search of innocent prey.

  I continue to run while deriding myself for my foolish choices. I shouldn’t have stayed at the gym for so long. I knew people were after me - this isn’t my first run for my life. I don’t know what they want, nor why they continue to run me down throughout the last few weeks, but damn it, they keep finding me. It’s not like I can stop and invite them over for a cup of tea and ask what their deal is.

  I curse under my breath as my shoulder scrapes against a brick wall. I should have called Cinderson Robins and had him pick me up. I shouldn’t have thought these men – whoever they are – had stopped searching for me just because there was a lull between this chase and the last one.

  I’m an arrogant, arrogant fool with no sense of self-preservation.

  Gritting my teeth, I propel my arms higher and force my legs to move a faster rhythm. The cracked pavement beneath the rubber soles of my shoes hold steady, a contradiction, a drumroll pounding in tune with my heart, which beats a frantic pace. I can feel the pulse of its thrums in my wrist and the thick vein in my neck. Heat pumps into my cheeks, and sweat beads down my spine.

  I look over my shoulder, knowing the predator shouldn’t be far behind in his chase.

  He isn’t there.

  All of my attackers over the past few weeks are shifters. Every single one of them who came before this asshole are shifters, possibly trained to do just this: Hunt. They’re ghosts in the wind, adapted to be nothing but swift, silent, and deadly. I never see them coming until they drop from seemingly nowhere, right on my heels.

  None of them ever shift, though. When they try to kill me, they don’t resort to their wolf form. The glowing green eyes never emerge like the other shifters do when their wolf surges forward inside them.

  Amidst my overwhelming fear in this moment, searching, listening, and running, I’m grateful for that. I don’t think I could take on a shifter in wolf form. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve heard the rumors about shifters. They’re ruthless. Deadly. Like me, every daughter of a witch has been warned away from them since the moment we could toddle and speak. My mother was adamant in reminding me every chance she got.

  And even though my attackers don’t shift, to someone who has been taught to be wary of the species, I know how they behave. I’ve studied the one shifter I call a friend for weeks now. They all move the same. Graceful. Predatory. Superior.

  From the shadows of a towering factory, a rat the size of a house cat turns panicked eyes to me, and as my feet pound closer, it squeaks in fear and skitters into a pile of twisted metal and junk. Normally, I’d run away from the critter too, but today isn’t the day to be frightened of rodents. I have other things to fear.

  I hurl myself around a corner, then another, hoping the echo of my shoes bouncing off the tall walls of the factory confuse him.

  Once, I considered my hunters to be rogues – shifters without a pack – but they’re too organized for that, too determined to reach the same outcome for it to be coincidental. Besides, rogues are so frowned upon in the shifter world. They’re put down, and every single one of these shifters has the same welt stamped on their necks.

  At first, I assumed this mark was a birthmark, but after seeing it numerous times on just as many people. . .

  The last time I was attacked, I had a closer glimpse of it. A streetlamp had shown against the tribal lines of the welt. I’ve drawn it several times, hoping to discover what it means, but a diamond inside a diamond with a dot in the center isn’t exactly the best search terms for the internet. Tribal night ninjas was fruitless too.

  The wind changes direction, a caress to my sweaty, heated cheeks. It tunnels through an alley up ahead. I seize a chance – a bet on my life, and skid into the opening. I slam my back against the metal wall and squeeze my eyes shut, cringing when the metal vibrates and echoes marking my location to anyone in the area. A noise like that doesn’t go unnoticed by a shifter.

  I focus on my breathing, calming each frantic inhale and exhale, in hopes I’ll hear him before he reaches the al
ley. I have no plan, but running isn’t working anymore.

  It’s only one hunter, Jinx. One hunter. Surely I can deal with the one. You don’t go to the gym for nothing. You don’t practice for nothing.

  But he never comes. In confusion, I’m slow to open my eyes, reluctant to peek around the corner or believe he’s not nearby.

  My back bumps against the metal once more, and a growl of frustration rumbles in my chest. A surge of adrenaline shoots through my veins and stiffens my joints when I see him. He’s right in front of me, not ten feet away.

  His short black hair spikes around his head, and his bangs swoop across his forehead, covering his right eye. The dark casts a shadow across his features, yet his uncovered eye holds a mischievous, deadly glint. A smirk spreads his thin lips, exposing straight white teeth, and his hands are tucked in the pockets of his faded black jeans.

  How long has he been standing there so silent? Waiting? Stalking? Better yet, how the hell did I not hear him?

  Damn shifters. At least I can die knowing the rumors are true.

  He reaches, swift, his fingers spreading to grasp my shoulder. I grab his wrist just as quickly, twist his arm, and spin my body. He flips in the air. The metal wall groans as his shoulder thumps into it. Stray rocks skitter across the pavement on his tumble to the ground. He’s fast, too fast. His body adjusts to the fall, and I instinctively anticipate his next move.

  Without a sound, he lands on the ball of his foot and spins, using his other leg in an attempt to trip me. I jump, graceful. By the time I land on my feet, he’s back on his.

  He swings his arm forward. I block. He swings another. I duck. Each move I make, every anticipation of his body’s actions is instinctual. It’s muscle memory from years of training. As a useless witch, a witch without magic, I have nothing else going for me than to hone my own body into a weapon.

  Mentally, I curse for the freak show that I am. If I had magic, if I could use it, a spell would cross my lips faster than a shifter can blink. I’d probably already be on my way home, dragging a dead shifter by the toe while I whistled.

  Using his foot, he kicks my abdomen, and I tumble backward. The air gushes from my lungs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls a circular silver object from its depths. There’s a moment, a sliver of victory in his smirk before he presses a button on the object; a throwing star. With a slicing sound, spikes emit. They sparkle in the light of an exposed, brief sliver of the moon.

  Fear. My heart beats to an unwavering surge of fear, begging me to flee. I can’t fight a throwing weapon. I have no doubt his aim is true, and there is nothing to duck behind when it seeks my skin to appease its master’s command. The chances I’ll survive with it buried in my chest are little to none.

  But then… then… oh God, no, not again.

  “No,” I gasp. Not to him but to me. A plea with myself.

  Every nerve along my skin pricks, a wave of agonizing sensation. I fight it, shake my head to try and dispel the out-of-body experience that suddenly, and familiarly, overcomes me. I open my mouth to scream for my life and because of the pain, but as soon as I do, a curtain of dark smothers my vision.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jacob Trent

  A light dances across my closed eyelids. A nuisance of buttery morning rays shine through my bedroom window. I can smell the breeze pushing against the glass as though there’s no window at all. The scent of crisp autumn leaves is prominent. Fall has officially arrived, and it calls to my wolf stirring inside me.

  My face scrunches at the obtrusive ray, and I bury my eyes into my flat and aged pillow with a moan. I’ve had the pillow since a teen, and though the pack teases me mercilessly about it, I prefer this flat pillow over the feathered ones strewn across the other side of the bed. Sometimes, I don’t even use a pillow. I like the cool white sheets pressed against my cheek. In the middle of the night, it’s the only thing that pulls me from my dreams – memories that have plagued me since . . . since. . .

  Nausea turns my stomach, and I shove the thought aside.

  The morning’s dazed thoughts slowly clear away, and I stretch my calves. I run through my memories of last night instead and frown. I can’t recall if I held an ounce of intelligence to shut the damn curtains. My mind has been preoccupied with other, more important things. Things I’m forced to deal with, considering how often it plagues my waking and sleeping state.

  The Realms War.

  My pack had dwindled in size because of it. So many losses. So many families’ and friends’ bodies carried home to be buried. Our numbers were once too large before that war, and we all feel the losses in different ways. The difference between my pack’s feelings and mine as alpha are astronomical. I feel their absence in the pack link like a gaping hole. I’m reminded that they’re gone by the budget I pour over day in and day out. I feel responsible that family, friends, and mates didn’t come home. It consumes me so much that I stumble into bed without an ounce of a coherent thought every night. Hence, the dark curtains, because occasionally the morning sun’s heat reminds me of dragon fire.

  That’s not even the half of it. The Riva Pack has taken it upon ourselves to deal with rogues plaguing our town. Many shifters returned home as the only members left of their pack, and with their shattered and devastated state of mind, they didn’t seek a new one.

  That’s a mess all on its own. I can still feel the lingering ache in my jaw where yesterday’s rogue didn’t take too kindly to his two choices. Either he joins a pack, or he is put to death.

  After calling Evo last night, my friend and alpha of the Cloven Pack, he assured me he’d find someone to bring the rogues to heel so the burden wouldn’t continue to fall on our shoulders.

  Rogue shifters are dangerous and often half-crazed by the time we find them in a dark and dank alley, eating stray cats with their bare hands and teeth. Occasionally, we’ve found a few shifters who are safe enough to join a pack of their choosing. Occasionally . . .

  With a groan, I shove back my comforter and swing my feet over the side of my king-sized mattress. I rub my eyes to rid them of the crud along the lids and then open them to the morning’s false glory.

  Another day. Another day of dealing with pack nagging.

  Those who have survived in my pack have made it their mission to find their alpha – me – my mate. Each day, I grit my teeth and endure it, but there’s only so much a man can hold in until he blows.

  My wolf smirks inside me, rousing to my thoughts. A shifter’s wolf’s main goal is to find a mate. I scoff aloud and step onto the plush, white carpet. It’s near impossible for a wolf shifter to find their fated mate. We only get one, and out of thousands of shifters across the world, my odds are slim. Though, since the Realms War and the new change in power, this law of nature has changed. It’s more unpredictable now. We can mate to our choosing. There have been reports of wolves mating with humans and other creatures of other species. I haven’t seen it firsthand, but rumors spread quicker than truth.

  Even so, I’m a traditional man and would prefer to find my ideal wolf mate, and not some random human I happen across who tickles my wolf’s fancy. The beast is being as unreasonable as the pack. I have duties. A love life isn’t on my to-do list.

  I bend to my hand-crafted, wood nightstand, pluck up the folded blue shirt I had managed to lay out last night, and pivot to the large mirror hanging on the wall above my dresser.

  Absentmindedly, I reach for my lucky rubber band and slide it over my wrist. It was my best friend Allie’s lucky charm, and I couldn’t bear to let her be buried with it when we brought her broken body back with the others.

  The reflection of the morning light shines across the dark, dewy skin of my upper arm, catching my gaze. Staring for a moment, I slip my shirt over my sleek, shaven head. My biceps ripple when I squeeze my arms through the shirt’s holes.

  I stare at the mirror, not for vanity but because I almost don’t recognize myself. The firm edges of my full lips and the flare of my nostrils
tell the story of my troubles within. I try so hard to keep them hidden. A strong alpha is what every pack needs. My face’s stress lines tell stories of battles and wars, both mental and physical. Of death and destruction, both past and present. It’s aged me. I just didn’t realize it until now.

  My light brown eyes stare back at me, stress stealing the emotions lying within. There’s no weakness painted in my reflection, a purposeful, trained act I maintain to remain strong for my pack. There’s no room for weakness when several lives are under my care.

  I run my fingers along my under-eyes to smooth the puffy circles and then turn away from my reflection. A stress-free day isn’t something I’ll ever have. Not while I’m Alpha. Not when everything is my sole responsibility.

  The wood beneath the carpet creaks under my weight as I travel to my door and swing it open. The halls are quiet in our compound – an old and large catholic school our elders renovated and re-purposed to house our entire pack, the Riva Pack, before I was born. So many rooms are empty now, and I try like hell to avoid them.

  Still, with a pack that often acts like pups, it’s unusual for complete silence here, and I immediately become suspicious.

  My eyebrows furrow as I travel down the hall, take the steps down two at a time, and follow the scent of coffee luring me to the cafeteria on the main floor. I round the corner and stop inside the entrance. Half the pack is here, seated at the rectangular standard tables. The other half are at jobs or on patrol of our woods surrounding the compound. Their attention is glued to the large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.

  A woman with a high-pitched, nasally voice reports the news. “The unidentified man is of Asian descent. No identification has been found. Authorities are asking anyone to come forward if they have information.”

  The female news anchor shuffles her papers against her desk, and the volume is lowered. Rex, the pack’s beta, turns to me. His shock of red hair is shaven short, and he’s dressed in jogging gear. A dewy dampness clings to his sneakers and they squeak against the floor when he crosses his ankles under his chair.