Sanctuary: A dark urban fantasy (Shifter Chronicles Book 1) by Melle Amade

Author:Melle Amade [Amade, Melle]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Manuscript Template, Public
Publisher: Agropoli Publishing
Published: 2016-10-22T04:00:00+00:00

16

“Ah-raw! Ah-raw! Ah-raw!”

I sit bolt upright. The morning sun pries its way through the trees.

“Ah-raw!”

It sounds like a bird in its death throes. But, it’s not.

It takes me a moment to figure out what it is. When I do, I’m out of bed and running through the house to the front yard.

“Henry!” I cry as I burst out the front door.

There is blood everywhere.

He stands in his knight and dragon pajamas, snot drips from his nose. He sucks at the air. I grab him and pull him to me, turning his face into my stomach to stop him looking at the front yard.

“Mom?” I call. “Dad?”

My gaze flies around the yard, over the bloody puddles. I want to push Henry in the house and find my parents.

No.

Maybe I don’t want to find them. I fight back my own scream.

Mrs. Steinberger.

Were my parents next on Murtagh’s list?

“Mom! Dad!” I scream louder as Henry shudders against me. Hysteria rises from my guts, choking out my breath. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

“Dad!”

Silence.

“Mom!”

Nothing.

My jaw is moving up and down, gasping for air. A wooden gate groans, then snaps on its hinges. I clutch Henry tighter. Mom comes out of the chicken coop clutching the .24-gauge rifle, the one she keeps “in case of rattlesnakes.”

“It’s the chickens,” she says.

A gasp of relief escapes me and my lungs work again. A severed chicken’s head lies at my feet. Feathers, heads and carcasses are strewn everywhere.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask warily, my palms clammy.

“Cleaning up.” She looks like she wants to kill something. But, they’re all dead.

“It’s the chickens,” I say to Henry. “Just the chickens.”

“One more thing to ruin the sale.” Mom spits the words out. “We have to clean all this up. If the buyers hear our house was overrun by wild animals, they’ll pull out.”

I soak in the details of our yard; entrails hang from the wooden fence, strung like some thoughtless Christmas decoration; a severed chicken head lies with its beak in a muddy puddle trying for one last drink. My stomach heaves again, but it’s empty. I have to get Henry back in the house.

Dad comes into the yard pulling a hose and a couple of gunny sacks. His steps halt as he takes in Mom with the gun and me standing in front of Henry. Our eyes meet. I really want Mom to put the gun down. Dad gives a slight movement of his chin as he squats down in his baggie old sweats and points at a paw print full of dirty, bloody water.

“Mountain lion,” Dad mutters.

“The mountain lion was here!” Henry exclaims, pushing in front of me, the white puss of his sties shining against the bloodshot red of his eyelids. I grab him as ice floods from the crown of my head bursting down my face and into my arms and hands.

Vasquez.

“Ow!” Henry says and pulls away from me. I yank my hand back from where it clenches his shoulder. My nails have put red marks on his neck.

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