BENEATH THE SKIN
AMY LEE BURGESS
LYRICAL PRESS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/
Before I ever took the first scary step toward submitting this novel for publication, I spent several years sharing my writing with a core group of friends without whom I wouldn’t have had the courage to reach further. My eternal gratitude to all of you–Kim Murphy, Chris Wilbanks, Portia Scott Palko, Michelle Guillory and Elizabeth Myrddin–you have no idea how much your support has meant to me.
I’d also like to dedicate this novel to Nerine Dorman for her constant inspiration and encouragement.
And, Michael, this novel wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t challenged me to do NaNoWriMo last year.
Chapter 1
Run. Run, run, run. Scared. Littles hide, no scrape legs, no make noise. Wind no push things. Fur stick up. Me scared. Me follow scent. Her. Me love Her. See big hard thing. Pushed in. Black water drip, drip, drip. Blood. Smell blood. Drip, drip, drip. Scared. See Her. See Her in big hard thing. Her two legs now. Her eyes no see Me. Look up to Big Shiny and little shinies. No see. Smell blood. Smell Her. No hear beat thing. No hear blood move under skin. Her no move no more. Her gone. Me look up see Big Shiny. Me cry loud.
* * * *
When I jerked awake, a smothered scream on my lips, the digital clock on the nightstand read five thirty-two in the morning. I rolled over and reached out instinctively for the reassuring warmth of Grey’s body, but of course he wasn’t there. He never would be there again.
Two years, I told myself as I threw back the covers of the single bed in a small, unfamiliar Paris hotel room and staggered for the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. The dregs of the dream slipped away under my fingertips as I massaged my cheeks and forehead, blond hair spilling over my shoulders into the wet stream of the water.
My hair was getting long. Two years, I told myself again, bitterness twisting my face.
I scowled into the mirror and saw my own reflection—as familiar to me as anything in the world. I thought of the wind, the trees at night, the scent of the pine needles embedded in the soft earth of the forest.
Everything conspired to create a wall between me and the rest of the world. I hadn’t connected with anything or anyone for so long I barely remembered what it felt like not to be alone.
My thirty-second birthday had come and gone three months earlier. Once upon a time there would have been a celebration. Grey and Elena would have been there with me. Presents. Cake.
Instead I’d sat in a dark theater and watched a horror movie while secretly envying all the couples who sat around me.
When I saw people in love, a strange, isolating ache gripped my whole body.
Two years, I told my reflection in the mirror.
Grey used to tell me I was beautiful. He loved to trace the contours of my face with his fingers—my high cheekbones, my full mouth, my eyelids and forehead. Even my nose, which I thought was too big but he pronounced elegant. Ha.
He was the elegant one with his sensitive mouth and long, thin fingers. A poet’s face. Hollow cheeks, dreamy eyes.
Elena had been the beauty in my opinion. Blond, like me, only hers was so fair it was nearly white. The milky translucence of her skin made me think of women in castles in the medieval days, women who stayed behind the castle walls and never saw the sun because of the feuds and fights their men waged for them.
Grey and Elena—my bond mates, my lovers, my friends.
There had also been Jonathan, Nora, Callie, Vaughn and Peter. Grandfather Tobias. My pack.
Two years ago, that is.
When everything stopped.
* * * *
I spent the day shopping. I ended up at Au Printemps on the boulevard Haussman where I sorted through a bewildering array of bright, modern dresses and used my limited French with the saleswoman who tried to steer me away from black toward something brighter.
“Tout le monde préfère des robes noires, mais, pour vous, madame, je pense rouge! Voila!” She produced a shimmering red gown with a plunging sequined neckline and a nearly indecent slit up the right thigh.
I had thought something a little plainer. Something that would allow me to blend into the background, because I wasn’t sure I wanted attention.
Two years, I heard my own accusing voice say in my head then, abruptly, I agreed to try on the dress. If I didn’t like it, I would stick with the original plan.
Ten seconds after staring at my reflection in the three-way mirror in the dressing room, I abandoned my idea of blending into the background. I looked gorgeous. Gorgeous, hell. I hadn’t even felt pretty in so long. The crimson color made my blond hair glow and darkened my eyes to navy. I looked regal and self-assured. It was a dress that would force people to take me seriously. For two years I’d felt invisible. In this red dress that would be impossible.
Of course it wasn’t cheap and I winced at the hit on my bank balance as I paid. Back in my little hotel room I had a new pair of fantastic cherry red stiletto pumps that would be the perfect accompaniment. Paris was proving to be an expensive adventure.
As I left, the saleswoman wished me a good afternoon, and that she hoped I would enjoy myself at the party tonight.
Party. I nearly snorted aloud at the idea. It was a not a party. No one there would dream to call it something as frivolous as that, even if there would be canapés and cocktails, three or four different types of music, candles and designer clothes. People there would laugh and flirt, dance and drink, but it was not a party.
It was a gathering. The Great Gathering.
So many of the Great Pack would be there from all over the world, maybe including people I hadn’t seen in five years, since before Grey and Elena had died.
There I would be in a bold, sexy red dress without them, and everyone would see me. My stomach lurched. What was I thinking?
I turned around on the sidewalk so I could return the dress. I should be in mourning still. I should wear black. What kind of a message would I send with a red dress? Could I afford that message? After all, everyone thought—my own former pack even—it was my fault they were dead—Elena and Grey. Of course I thought so too.
After all, I had driven the car that night.
My pack’s eyes had been so cold when they’d severed ties with me. Jonathan’s, especially. He was Alpha, the leader, but Grey had been a favorite in the pack, even if he hadn’t been Alpha. He could have been, but he didn’t want to. He said no when Vaughn asked. Everyone had been a little shocked he’d turned it down. After all, everyone wanted to be Alpha at some point in their lives. But then he explained it to me. Some people needed to lead more than others, and that popularity didn’t prove the best indicator of need. Jonathan needed to lead. If he’d been under another male, he would have chafed at it, and the bonds between us all would have suffered. Besides, Alphas rotated. We’d get our chance. Let Jonathan go first. Grey had been so wise. So good. He would have made a much better Alpha than Jonathan, and now he would never have the chance.
It was November in Paris and cold even with the wintry sunlight