Moonshade by Isadora Brown

Author:Isadora Brown [Brown, Isadora]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Heather C. Myers

When I woke up, my head hurt. I reached up to cradle it with my palm and winced when I felt something sticky and wet on my palm. I blinked once slowly, then again. God, I hoped I hadn’t had a concussion. The last thing I needed was sleep if they hit my head hard enough to bleed.

I blinked once, twice, trying to get used to the dim lighting in this room. I had no idea where I was. I knew I wasn’t on a bed, but a cot. I knew I was in a small room with what seemed to be glass walls that encased me so I had no ounce of privacy. My eyes continued to flicker around the room, trying to make sense of the shapes and the bungled objects. A toilet, I realized, was positioned by the bed, but other than that, I didn’t think there was anything else.

I wiggled my toes, realizing they were completely bare still. My heels were back at the building, along with my phone. I closed my eyes again, forcing myself to slowly sit up. I dropped my face in my palms, tilting my head to the left and getting a deep stretch in the side of my neck, before doing it to the other side.

Something struck me about this place, something familiar. I knew I had never been in one of these cells before. I knew that. And yet, I got the distinct feeling that I had been here. Maybe on the other side. Maybe somewhere else. But there was something inside of me that recognized this place.

“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” a droll voice commented behind me.

I whipped around only to see a man in a cell of his own, leaning against the glass with his hands propping himself up, hazel eyes narrowed on me like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me.

“Who are you?” I asked. I dropped my hands from my head, turning around completely so I could make him out more clearly, so I could take him in. He, too, was familiar, with chestnut hair, wild and unkept, and muscles upon muscles. He wore a grey muscle shirt and black sweatpants that seemed comfortable and practical, and his feet were bare. A pair of dog tags hung from his neck.

“Who the fuck are you to ask me who I am?” he growled.

I flinched from the hatred leaking from his voice. It didn’t help that the way he looked at me caused me to go in complete defense mode, like I was concerned that he would do something to me if only he could break the glass between us. Why was he angry? I was in a cell just like he was, wasn’t I? Why did he look at me like I was the enemy?

And then it hit me.

“You’re a were-weapon,” I said out loud. I reached up and began to finger my cross, though I wasn’t sure if I was silently asking God for strength or protection.

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