Bad Wolves 01 0 Never Prey 1st Edition

Harper A Brooks Brea Viragh

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/bad-wolves-01-0-never-prey-1st-edition-harper-a-broo
ks-brea-viragh/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Woodsman A Bad Boy Romance 1st Edition Abby Brooks Wren

Williams

https://ebookmeta.com/product/woodsman-a-bad-boy-romance-1st-
edition-abby-brooks-wren-williams/

Mob Ties 01 0 Out for a Bite 1st Edition Milly Taiden

https://ebookmeta.com/product/mob-ties-01-0-out-for-a-bite-1st-
edition-milly-taiden/

Her Big Bad Wolves 1st Edition Margo Bond Collins

https://ebookmeta.com/product/her-big-bad-wolves-1st-edition-
margo-bond-collins/

Evermore Academy 01 0 Winter 1st Edition Audrey Grey

https://ebookmeta.com/product/evermore-academy-01-0-winter-1st-
edition-audrey-grey/
Dragon Interim 01 0 Dragonblight 1st Edition Katie
Macalister

https://ebookmeta.com/product/dragon-
interim-01-0-dragonblight-1st-edition-katie-macalister/

Pack Wars 01 0 Forever Bite 1st Edition Milly Taiden

https://ebookmeta.com/product/pack-wars-01-0-forever-bite-1st-
edition-milly-taiden/

Shadow Pack 01 0 Total Eclipse 1st Edition Jessica

Lynch

https://ebookmeta.com/product/shadow-pack-01-0-total-eclipse-1st-
edition-jessica-lynch/

Omega Sanctuary 01 0 Omega Sanctuary 1st Edition Mira

Kane

https://ebookmeta.com/product/omega-sanctuary-01-0-omega-
sanctuary-1st-edition-mira-kane/

Savage Shifters 01 0 Savage Bite 1st Edition Milly

Taiden

https://ebookmeta.com/product/savage-shifters-01-0-savage-
bite-1st-edition-milly-taiden/
 Never Prey

Bad Wolves Book 1

Harper A Brooks
Brea Viragh
 Contents

A Note to Readers

1. Ren
2. Ren
3. Ren
4. Torin
5. Ren
6. Torin
7. Noble
8. Ren
9. Ren
10. Dax
11. Ren
12. Ren
13. Mathis
14. Ren
15. Torin
16. Torin
17. Ren
18. Ren
19. Torin
20. Ren
21. Mathis
22. Noble
23. Ren
24. Noble
25. Mathis
26. Ren

Harper A. Brooks
Brea Viragh
Also by Harper A Brooks
Also by Brea Viragh
Spelling Disaster
Faerie Marked
Never Prey © Copyright 2023 Harper A. Brooks and Brea Viragh

Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission
in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is

illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary
gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a
fine of $250,000.

Cover Artist: Manuela Serra Book Cover Designer

Editor: Read Head Editing
Proofreader: Krista Cook
 Never Prey

Little Red Riding Hood had a big, bad wolf… I have four.

I didn’t even know werewolves existed. Or that the story my parents

used to tell me about a mythical Moon Goddess was real.

But it’s true—all of it—and that means, the part about her gifting me
with only twenty-five years of life is too.

With my final birthday looming, I'm on a mission to save myself, but

that mission ends up throwing me in the middle of two warring
werewolf packs.

Now, the rival alphas and their two betas have me in their sights.

Torin, Noble, Mathis, and Dax are sexier than sin, but they're
hunters, killers, some of the most powerful men in the shifter and
human world…

And they want a taste of me.

They’re in for a surprise: I might not be a wolf like them, but I’m
never prey.
 A Note to Readers

This book contains triggering topics such as:

Dubious consent
Mentions of infant loss/stillborn
Primal play/ cat & mouse
Knotting
To a certain Sandwich, for supplying us with jokes for DAYS. We are
never lacking in material.

And to our Real Life Anna—the woman who actually has Cocoa Puffs
in the seats of her van. We love you! And all the trauma in your ass.
Chapter 1
 Ren

I t always rains when my car breaks down.

One of those unspoken laws of the universe, I guess.
I hoof it through the pouring rain, dark hair frizzing around
my head with the humidity.
It’s just like how it always seems to break down when I’m late for
work. Some kind of issue with the starter I’ve never managed to get
fixed.
I slam to a stop underneath the overhang and tug open the back
door to Rudy’s Bar. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do or how
many plans I put into place for the day—the rain comes, the car
breaks, and I’m out every bit of cash I’ve managed to put into
savings.
Go figure.
The moment the doors open, the stench of old fry oil hits me like
a ton of bricks.
“You’re late, Ren.” Rudy himself glares over his shoulder at me.
His eyes are shadowy beneath a layer of sweat the red checkered
bandanna across his forehead can’t absorb fast enough. “I have no
fucking clue how someone who lives above the place she works can
be late but somehow you manage it.”
“I like to think it’s endearing,” I reply.
“Let me assure you, it’s fucking not.”
I wave him off, shrugging out of my now soaked crimson-colored
hoodie and hanging it on the grease-slicked peg beside the door. “I
had to run errands and the car broke down..”
“I don’t want to hear excuses, either,” Rudy says as he flips a
burger patty in the air. It lands back on the flattop with a wet plop. I
shudder.
All my clothes smell like the place. It’s a kind of odor you can’t
escape. Call it an occupational hazard.
“Above. The. Place. You. Work,” he repeats.
“And you never let me forget it, either.”
Landlord, boss, double whammy and Rudy holds it above my
head whenever shit happens.
I twist my long hair into a bun at the back of my head, unable to
do anything with the baby-fine wisps around my face, and stare
Rudy down until he returns his attention to the grill, whistling to the
Bruce Springsteen song on the radio.
“Get to work,” he sing-songs along with the music.
Not even a second to decompress before diving into the fray, and
judging from the noise coming from the bar area, the place is
hopping. At four o’clock in the afternoon.
Broken down car, wet soggy underpants—and not from anything
good—and a full house when it isn’t even dark outside…things are
combining to make this a Friday I won’t forget. Also, not in a good
way.
I twist the worn metal band around my left ring finger. Habit.
Helps me keep the scum from hitting on me 24/7.
There is rarely anything good about having to work in a bar. A
grunge bar, I correct mentally, where the patrons complain
constantly about the watery beer and the greasy food and heaven
forbid Rudy raises the cost of liquor. We’d have a riot on our hands.
My feet already hurt from the trek here. It’s going to be a long
damn shift and I’ve learned better than to complain. It helps no one.
At least the money is good.
Money helps.
Money helps a whole manner of things in life.
Just not the starter in my car.
We serve deep fried heart attacks and cheap drinks. There are
peanut shells on the floor and a whole lot of bad attitudes, but we
make it work. I blow Rudy a kiss as I finish looping my apron strings
into a bow.
“Keep your kisses,” he grumbles.
“You know I could be anywhere else in the world right now, but I
choose to be here,” I joke.
A girl in my position should be out seeing the world considering
the ending I have waiting for me. Rudy doesn’t know, and since he’s
sick of my shit, he rolls his eyes.
My best friend in the world pushes through the swinging double
doors separating the kitchen from the rest of the bar and pretends
to fall over backward.
“Renee Wexler. Poster child for the drowned-cat look.” Carrigan
clucks her tongue as she stares me up and down. “I’ve had to cover
both sections for the last thirty minutes. To say people are pissed is
an understatement.”
The thought of having to wade into chaos makes me wanna lose
my lunch. “I’ll make it up to you.” I flash her a smile. “And thanks for
the compliment. I can make drowned cat work for me.”
Slipping into my work persona, adjusting my set of pens and the
notepad in the front pocket of my apron, I follow Carrigan out onto
the main floor of the bar. She’ll man one half and me the other, now
that I’m here. The tables we split right down the middle, and we
fight over anyone who seems to have the biggest…wallet.
When I first met the blonde with the riot of curls, I thought she
was stuck up and arrogant. Which she is, totally. I also came to
really appreciate those things about her because she takes no shit
and can get an unruly drunk to quiet his ass down with only a look.
She’s my kind of woman and I can take a page out of that book.
“Go ahead and take care of table three. They’re waiting for two
screwdrivers, two shots of tequila, and three waters,” Carrigan says
in her typical velvet-over-steel voice.
A southern belle in a modern world.
I nod, sidling up and using my hips to lead the way. “You got it.”
The hips do a good job of soothing over any ruffled feathers, I’ve
learned. If you can’t work with what you’ve got to make money,
then what good are the assets? This is a business. And it doesn’t
matter if I’m sick and fucking tired of said business.
Being busy at work is a good thing on multiple levels.
Sure, you deal with your fair share of dicks and pricks who want
to make life harder than it has to be. Who see their bartender as a
glorified servant. Then you’ve got the hotties who slide their number
to me on a credit card slip.
The best part?
The anonymity.
I’m nobody special here. I might as well be normal.
It’s like jumping into a cold pool and waiting to get used to the
temperature. People holler, fingers snap, and more than a few of
those fingers try to make their way toward my ass. Anyone pissed at
the slow service gets served and well on their way toward a good
buzz once I settle into my rhythm.
Halfway through the shift, the bell over the door jangles out a
tune I’ve heard so many times before. There’s no way to ignore the
scent, though. The smell of several grown ass men in all their glory
and with huge egos. All swagger. Something inside of me tenses at
the smell, although it’s hell trying to place it. I just know the look in
their eyes makes me want to bare my teeth and run in the opposite
direction.
I push the feeling aside, watching them sidle over to one of the
empty tables on the side opposite of the bar.
I must not be the only one who recognizes there’s something off
about the three of them. The noise level in the place drops a full
octave, to the point where I can hear Rudy singing horribly from
behind the grill.
We get a lot of regulars here. These guys…I’ve never seen
before. In my section, too.
I take a deep steadying breath and hold it in my lungs.
Not like anything changes. I’ve still got to serve them. Steeling
myself, I square my shoulders and tug on the hair slipping out of my
bun. They’re just like any other customer, only a little cleaner. Their
shirts look new, all three of them with hair on the longer side. Have
these guys known a hard day of work in their lives?
 We get more blue-collar workers in here than anyone else. Most
people take a look at the exterior of the bar and decide to head for
greener pastures.
Maybe these guys are here on a bet.
With more resolve than I actually feel, I saunter over to them
with a small smile and cock my hip when I stop in front of the table.
“Fellas,” I say by way of greeting. “What can I get you to drink?”
Their conversation stops dead in the water, and when I peel my
eyes away from the edge of the table, two of them are staring and
the third is smirking. They all boast the typical good looks of men in
their prime, the entitled sort who think they can eye-fuck you with
no consequences.
I force a similar smirk to my features.
Never let them see you sweat.
“What do we have here?” The one on the end sneers and draws
in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring dramatically.
He flashes overly white teeth at me.
“You have someone who is very busy and wants to get your
order,” I reply primly. “Trust me, guys, I’ve seen your type before
and I’ll see ‘em again. What do you want to drink?”
I stuff down every ounce of emotion inside of me and make sure
my mask of apathy is squarely in place. Very little of it is an act at
this point.
“What’s a little princess like you doing in a place like this?” the
brunette continues. “Seems to me there are better places for your
kind.”
“Oh?” I arch a brow.
“Like bouncing on top of my cock,” he finishes.
His buddy lifts a hand for a high five.
I’ve heard it my entire life. “Being so transparent must make you
thirsty.” I tap my foot. “Five seconds. Then I’m out.” I purposely
keep my tone jovial. Uncaring.
It’s always the same story, and I can never stop myself from
feeling way too deeply.
“If I ask for milk, are you going to go out and milk the cow for
us?” Sneer-face asks. “Or can you give me your tit?”
 I shrug, one shoulder lifting high. “Not when I have two percent
in the fridge.”
“She’s got a little bit of an attitude problem,” the third one
replies. His dark brows furrow as he studies me, his head angled to
the side.
They’re young. They’re young and they get rowdy and horny. Not
like I’m much older than they are but I like to think I was never a
piece of shit like these douchebags.
Standards.
“Five,” I count down. “Four. Three…Okay, water it is, fellas.”
I shove my pad back in my apron and stalk away.
Their barely muttered curses follow me across the room. Talk
about making a bad day even worse. I grit my teeth, grinding the
back molars down to nubs as I cross to the soda machine and take a
breath.
Last straw, though. If they make one more sex joke, then I’m
going to throw a punch.
Sighing, I drop my head against the machine. No. I won’t. I’ll
never stand up for myself that way. At the most I’ll give the table to
Carrigan and let her handle the dickwads.
Rudy will give me the damn boot if I so much as curse out
another customer.
So far, I’ve managed to fend him and his lurking ax off with
excuses when he gets pissy with me. Too many instances of me
pushing down my feelings and then losing my temper and alienating
people he sees as good paying customers.
With three waters balancing in one palm and the chip on my
shoulder as large as it’s ever been, I make my way slowly back to
the table drawing in deep calming breaths.
I keep the same bright, chipper smile on my face that doesn’t
reach my eyes as I set down the waters.
“Have you boys made your decision—”
The nearest one reaches out and grabs me around the wrist
before I have a chance to finish. He jerks me forward.
“What are you doing here?” he barks out.
“My job? Not sure how you want me to answer you.”
 Fear skitters along my skin, a gut reaction, and unfortunately for
me, all three of them seem to smell it on me. I’m not sure how they
know, but the moment they take a good whiff of me, they start
smiling like they know a secret no one else does.
“This might not be our territory but we sure as shit know you
don’t belong here either,” the brunette tells me.
Territory? What the fuck is this guy on?
“If anyone gets to call it a territory, it’s gonna be the pudgy guy
behind the grill. You see him?” I throw my free thumb over my
shoulder. “Name’s Rudy. Should be easy to remember because it’s
the name on the glowing neon sign right there. If you have issues,
then talk to him.”
My voice trembles.
Keep calm.
I have to keep calm.
The boy brushes his thumb over my pulse point as though he can
see the way my heartbeat ratchets out of control. I hear it in my
ears, thundering along like I’ve held a shell up to the area.
“Sticking it to Torin, that’s what she’s doing. Like some kind of
fucking freak flag flying,” the guy continues. “Seems we’ve got the
same goal in mind, sweet cheeks.”
“Take your goddamn hands off me,” I warn. “I don’t know who
Torin is, but I don’t have any beef with him.”
I tug my hand to break his grip, only to have the boy tighten his
hold hard enough to bruise.
“You don’t know what you are, either. Do you?” the one holding
me continues. He squeezes again to make his point, hard enough to
have me wincing.
“I’m a woman who is going to feed you your nutsack if you don’t
let go,” I grind out. “Now get your fucking paws off me before you
have a problem with Rudy, and I’ve seen him shove a spatula up
someone’s ass before. Not the handle side, either.”
Being civil won’t work with these guys and I know it, no matter
how hard I try. I don’t want any trouble.
It finds me.
 Finally the boy releases me, quick enough I stumble back and
knock into the waiting arms of Joe, one of our regulars. I try not to
flip my shit when the stranger lifts his hand to his face and inhales
deeply. His smile grows, eyes darkening.
“You okay?” Joe asks.
I nod, pushing away from him.
“A bitch she might be, but she smells fucking fantastic,” the boy
tells the others. “Might be a good idea to keep her to ourselves.
What do you think?”
I turn on my heel and get the hell out of there before they can
grab me again.
My insides shake and roll and my eyes pulse hard enough to
make my headache into something unavoidable.
“Are those shitheads giving you trouble?” Carrigan asks when I
push through the double doors, needing a breath.
I brush a hand through my hair and struggle to answer her
without losing my shit. “Nah. They’re nothing I can’t handle. I’m just
going to take a minute.”
“They touched you.” She sounds ready to shove a spatula up an
asshole herself.
“A lot of men have tried. They’re looking for a fight,” I say. “Let’s
not give them one.”
“Want me to put a pube in their food?” Rudy asked, almost
conversationally from his station behind the grill. “Maybe a little
sweat surprise instead of mayo?”
I force a grin. “As much as I appreciate the thought, let’s put a
pin in it.”
Being in the kitchen helps. Being surrounded by the same rowdy
conversation, the dirty jokes, and the ever-present sizzle of meat on
the grill and stench of stale beer helps. It might not be an ideal
situation working at Rudy’s Bar, but it’s my hellhole.
And asshole customers can only rattle me if I let them.
Momma and Daddy didn’t go through a fucking trial-by-fire for
me to survive and let small men tear me down.
Did they?
 Renewed, I bring bar food out to one of my tables and refill shots
at another before returning to the boys, forcing myself to face them
when I’d rather turn in the opposite direction.
Their heads bolt up in unison at my approach, and the closest
one leans further forward in the booth, crowding me even though
he’s still seated.
There’s nowhere for me to go to avoid him or the dread curdling
my blood.
“If you guys aren’t ready to order then get the fuck out,” I tell
them. Striving for confidence. Competence.
“You’re not going to ignore us,” Blondie says, puffing out his
chest.
“Tell me why I should give a shit instead of having you thrown
out?” I ask.
Much to my surprise, the one who grabbed me before lurches to
his feet, looming over me and stealing the air from my lungs. “How
about we get out of here?” he asks. “We can go somewhere a little
more private?”
Warning bells sound in my head and carefully I say, “Get out.”
It’s not enough to deter him. Especially not when his buddies
stand as well. “We came in for booze, but it looks like we found
something else. Something tastier,” he continues. “Something I
wouldn’t mind slurping up.” He flicks his tongue out and curls it
suggestively. “How about you ride my face, princess?”
He leans forward to the point where his nose is inches away from
my hair, and I step back but his friend is already behind me.
When had he moved? How is he so fast?
I hadn’t seen them move and despite the crowd in the room, my
blood goes Arctic cold.
“Whatever issue you guys have, take it outside,” I tell them.
“There are people here—”
“Drunks,” the one behind me interrupts. “What are they going to
do?”
I try to put my hands up and keep out of the whole bullshit
thing. Like I need something else to put a blight on my day.
 I know better than to call out for help, too. There are eyes on us.
The conversation in the bar takes on a muted tone.
“You’re causing a scene.”
The loudest, clearly the leader of their little group, laughs
uproariously. “So? They’re no match for us. Especially not when
we’ve got a fucking Moonstone waiting for us at home.”
Wait. What?
He barely bats an eye when one of our regulars gets up from his
table, a military man from the look of him. “Son, why don’t you and
I go outside and have a talk about the way you’re handling yourself
in public?” the man begins, his voice low and slow.
His buzzed white hair shows off scars on his scalp.
“How about you mind your own goddamn business, old man?”
“That’s no way to speak to me.”
An itch between my shoulder blades grows stronger as tense
seconds tick by.
Then the young asshole plows a fist into the vet’s face, and all
hell breaks loose. With me in the middle of the chaos.
Chapter 2
 Ren

M y reflexes are usually pretty damn good, but today—screw

today.
Today I’m not fast enough to avoid the fist headed in my
direction. I’m not sure who throws it but knuckles land on my cheek
hard enough to snap my head back and send me sprawling into the
body behind me. Unfortunately, that isn’t Joe.
The boy wraps his arms around me, his face too close to my ear
and his breath too hot. Too everything. My skin prickles and pain
shoots through me from the bruise on my face.
“Maybe you and I should take advantage of this and get better
acquainted,” he whispers. “Alex isn’t the only one who thinks you’ll
look nice riding his cock. You’d look better on mine.”
I rear back and knock his face with the back of my skull,
following up the hit with a donkey kick in what I hope is the ball-
sack area. Either way, I land a blow. The guy howls in pain,
loosening his grip enough that I can slip out of his grasp.
“Whatever the hell is going on, this stops now,” Rudy hollers from
the kitchen.
I hear a clang of metal, his tools more than likely dropping to the
grill as he pushes his way into the dining room.
“Rudy, don’t!” My warning comes late. He’s no match for these
guys no matter how many times a week he tells us he goes to the
gym.
 There’s not much I can do to stop him once he gets something in
his head, though, and it’s his shithole dive bar. His people, he sees
it. So when he hefts his bulk into the ring and gets knocked down
with one punch, I’m mad.
Madder than I ever feel for myself.
“You son of a bitch.” I push a little old biker lady out of the way,
to protect her, and shift my way toward the booth where Blondie—
Alex?— and the vet are going hand to hand.
“You need to stop it right now,” I say, reaching for the youngster.
Not here. Not in this place where I clawed my way up from
nothing and saved myself from a life on the streets. Rudy, Carrigan,
everyone I work with, they’re mine.
Lucky for me, I’m used to walking on the sticky floor littered in
spilled booze and peanut shells. The boys aren’t; I grab the third by
the back of his hair and yank, hoping gravity will make my job a little
easier. The soles of his sneakers skid on the crumbs and down he
goes. Toppled like a tree.
Except his buddies aren’t going to let him stay down for long.
Alex lands a solid gut-punch to the vet and sends him swirling
toward one of the high-top tables. My eyes bulge, surprise rising.
Damn, I’ve never seen anyone throw a grown ass man across the
room like that before.
The vet crashes against the pedestal, sending himself, the table,
and every empty glass I’d yet to clear from the top of it flying.
Domino effect has the high top to the right going down too, along
with a couple of screeching girls who looked like they’d just
celebrated their twenty-first birthdays and were looking for a rough
and tumble walk on the wild side.
Well, chickies, you got it.
Beer flies, glass shatters, and for the love of it all my blood sings.
Considering the day I’ve had? Of course I’m ready to kick a little ass.
The hair on the back of my neck rises along with a mighty bloodlust.
I grab one of the bottles from the bar a split second before
Carrigan rounds one of the tables with a bat in hand. She holds it
high, the two of us meaning business.
 “Which one of you fuckers wants to mess around and find out?” I
call out in warning.
Several of our regulars hoot along with me because they know I
always follow through on my threats.
My life might not be mine to control, but I’m doing the best with
what borrowed time I have left. And if these boys want to come in
here, grab some ass, and cause trouble? I’ll give them trouble right
back.
Now they’ve asked for it.
“This is my place. And I’ve done my best—” I break off to shove
the guy to keep him down. “I’ve done my best to keep my head
down and survive. Now you fuckers are here messing with my
money for no good reason.”
The brunette growls at me—growls, like an animal—and flashes
sharp white canines at me.
Coming in here, posturing, causing chaos, and for what? Now it’s
going to take me extra long to make the cash to fix the car. And I
need to shut these boys down. “Someone call the cops. Get them to
handle these lowlifes.”
Hopefully someone will.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Joe and his buds reach into
their pockets.
With the lights dim, the scent of blood in the air, and my boss on
the ground, I swing.
I connect with the brunette’s shoulder, but he barely moves,
barely blinks, like my hit is no more than a mosquito bite.
“What the fuck are you, buddy?” I ask breathlessly.
His dark eyes absorb every ounce of dim light in the bar. My
blood rushes out of my head and my stomach flips and dives. He’s
looking at me like he wants to snap my neck.
“Got you covered, sweetheart.” Carrigan steps to my side with
her bat. “Does a bitch wanna go?”
“The only bitch I’m looking at is right in front of me.” The
brunette speaks like he’s got too many teeth crowding his mouth.
Am I the only one who sees how inhuman he looks?
I hold up a hand to her. “I’ve got this.”
 “Do you?” She pulls me back until we’re both at the helm of the
bar, and hollers, “I need everyone to shut the hell up and quit using
their fists instead of their words! You’re grown ass adults, not
children.”
I give her credit. She’s damn strong.
And intimidating.
I nod at her right before someone grabs me by my bun and
yanks, sending me sprawling backward and struggling to get my
balance. The brunette has me in a headlock, unbreakable, and
instead of panicking I double down to use his momentum against
him and send him forward. If I can somehow get him on his back,
then I’ll be able to—
He squeezes and my air supply cuts off. Shit. Shit!
I scramble against him. My nails aren’t the longest, but I use the
little length I have to gouge them deep, and his painful inhalation is
music to my ears.
Just goes to show how easy it is for things to get out of hand.
One wrong move and the kindling goes up like a bonfire, and there I
am in the middle, right where I don’t want to be.
“Hold on, Ren, I’m coming for you, girl!” Carrigan’s cry carries
over the dull roar of my pulse in my ears. “I’m not gonna let these
bastards get away with—back off or I’m going to take a crack at
your ass, boy.”
Carrigan isn’t a day over thirty and somehow makes anyone
around her, whether younger or older, feel small. She’s halfway
through the crowd of bodies to get to me when the door swings
open. How the hell I hear the swinging of the hinges and the slight
tinkle of the bell with the din I’m not sure.
Then…
Even the air stills around us as someone whistles, the sound shrill
and filled with warning.
I glance up when the boy holding me in a death grip stills, and
although too much hair blocks my vision to get a good look at the
newcomer, I feel him.
Sense him.
Whatever the fuck you want to call it.
 The whistle ends as abruptly as it began and the entire bar falls
silent, quiet enough for me to hear the soft padding of his feet. And
I have a feeling it’s only because the man wants us to hear him.
“Boys.” The silky-smooth baritone cuts through the tension easily
and without resistance. “What in the good fuck do you think you’re
doing here?”
The grip on my neck releases so quickly I drop to my knees.
Fresh air shoots down my burning throat all the way to my lungs.
Gasping, I cough uncontrollably until my eyes blur and those black
spots stop dancing like flies.
“We’re sorry, Mathis,” Blondie murmurs. Chastised properly.
“You know better than to come here, better than to start a fight
where you do. Not. Belong.” The man’s words are a whip, biting
deep into the recipients like a physical weapon.
“Get up. Stop your sniveling and get the hell up. This is not your
space, boys,” he continues, his voice rich with threat and promise.
A chill takes up residence inside my bones.
I finally manage to stop coughing long enough to get a good look
at the newcomer. From the set of his tight jeans to the broad chest
and muscles coiled, ready for action.
Slowly I straighten in time to see Rudy hoist himself to his feet
and point a meaty finger of warning at the man. “These assholes
belong to you?” he asks Mathis. “They’ve caused enough destruction
to cost me out the ass, as you can see. Who’s gonna pay for it all?”
I can’t take my eyes away from him.
Shit, how long has it been since I’ve been fucked right?
I’ve had a lot of sex in my life, knowing time is limited and taking
my pleasure wherever I wanted it. Mathis? He looks like he knows
how to fuck. He looks good at it.
Mathis stands a head taller than the rest of the bikers crowding
around the bar with all the haughty arrogance of a man who
understands his station. A man who has been born and molded to
rule over others. The sides and back of his head are buzzed down to
only a thin layer of oaky brown hair, while the top was left a little
longer. Equally dark eyes scour over the three misplaced boys who,
it’s clear from his expression, had no business coming here in the
first place.
He sees me.
His hands slide into the pockets of black jeans as he stares me
down, top to bottom and everything in between he has no business
looking at. The corner of his lip twitches but it’s nowhere near a
smile.
His eyes turn apprising and the weight of his look…damn me, I
feel it, right along with the chill in my bones.
Rather than dropping my eyes to the floor, I hold his expression,
arching a brow high as if to ask him to explain himself. To ask him
what he’s going to do to make this right.
Sexy. Too sexy for his own good and certainly too much for mine.
He’s the kind you stay away from because you know they’re poison,
even if they’d be a wild ride.
Too wild for my blood.
I jump, my skin tightening at his approach. He stops inches away
from me, breathing my air, taking up every bit of oxygen in my blood
and lungs. Surprisingly, his gaze drops to my hand.
“Fuck is that?”
Those gravel tones lap at my senses, rough, tantalizing. “I’m not
sure what you mean.” And I’m not sure how my voice stays steady.
Mathis reaches down, grabbing my hand and lifting it to his face.
He sees the wedding band on my left ring finger.
In one smooth move, he reaches with his free hand and jerks the
ring off, past my knuckles so quickly I hiss in pain.
“Don’t bother with this fake shit. You’re not fooling anyone.”
He takes the ring and crushes it easily between his fingers as I
watch in horror. Tossing the mangled piece of metal aside, Mathis
snaps his fingers.
The quick lightning bolt of sound has the three boys
straightening.
“It’s time for us to go.” Mathis turns to Rudy. “My apologies about
the damages. Expect a check in the mail.”
“You just plan to walk in here and snap your fingers like some
goddamn king—” Rudy starts.
 With that said and his business apparently done—ignoring the
bar owner—Mathis turns to the door. The others scoot forward and
ahead of him out the door with their heads ducked and shoulders
sloped forward. No need for him to drag them out. Their punishment
waits for them when they get back to wherever they crawled from in
the first place.
I rub my hand along the bruised muscles of my neck, but still
when Mathis turns to shoot a look at me over his shoulder.
“Hey, you. You with the hair. If you think I’m going to let you
guys walk out of here without cash in my goddamn hand then you’re
sorely mistaken. Look at this mess!” Rudy hustles his girth toward
the boys but they’re already out the door. “You come back here and
look at me when I’m talking to you.”
I’m not sure how Mathis knows about the fake ring I always wear
to keep most of the strange drunks from hitting on me. And he
crushed it like it was made of clay instead of metal.
“Damn, girl, I’m not sure what happened but I’m whooped.”
Carrigan keeps the bat at her side and loops her other arm around
my shoulder. “Are you okay? You’re shaking.”
Not out of fear, though. Left staring after Mathis, I’m not afraid,
but needy. More concerned for my mental health than anything else
because there’s got to be something seriously wrong with me to be
so aroused.
There’s a pale band of skin on my hand where the ring used to
be and a red, angry raw spot on my knuckle where Mathis yanked it
off me.
What else can he do, I wonder, with those hands?
Chapter 3
 Ren

“W hat a fucking night.” Carrigan lifts her shot glass up to

mine for a toast and my fingers tremble as I do the
same.
“You said a mouthful.” I slug back the shot, the liquor burning a
trail down my throat and landing hot in my gut. “Do I look as shitty
as I feel?”
“Worse.” Carrigan clears her throat and reaches for the bottle of
dirt-cheap tequila we took from downstairs. Blonde hair hangs in
limp strands around her face and purple smudges the skin beneath
her eyes. Exhaustion, sure, and coming down from a healthy dose of
adrenaline too. ”I hope you don’t mind, but I called Aspen. Thought
we’d both feel a lot better with another person here.”
I’m too tired to give a shit.
I’ve already had two shots of tequila before our toast and the
buzz goes a long way toward pushing away the cobwebs in my
mind.
It does nothing to make the apartment look better, though, or to
wipe away the scent of old fry oil. It clings to every pore, every nook
and cranny, as though the oil is gonna seep from the walls soon.
Rudy’s maintained the bar much better than he has this dump.
Although he still expects me to pay fair market value in terms of
rent. It doesn’t matter that only one burner works on the stove, or
my freezer doesn’t keep anything cold.
 I flop back on the couch and somehow manage to land my head
right in the tear in the fabric, causing me to sink back into the
stuffing instead. “When is she getting here?” I ask Carrigan.
Rudy will take the bottle of booze out of our “paychecks” once he
finds out it’s gone. Air quotes are absolutely necessary on the
paycheck part because with taxes, and my rent, if I get a few bucks
every week it’s a lot.
Sighing, I tug my hair down until it tumbles over my shoulders,
also smelling like oil and cheap alcohol. Maybe a little bit of sweat
and fear too, but I try not to focus on those things.
This might not be the life I wanted for myself, but desperate
times and all that. My existence is one long stretch of never-ending
desperate times.
Almost to the finish line, though.
The thought makes me want to get drunk and disassociate a
little. Make some bad decisions.
“Hey.” Carrigan rubs a hand over my shoulder, her eyes softening
as she looks at me. “It’s okay. It’s nothing but a bunch of roughneck
drunks swaggering into a bar and trying to prove they don’t have
small dicks.”
I shift forward with my elbows on my knees. “Doesn’t it bother
you, though? The way that guy just came in and everything kinda
stopped?” I shake my head. “It’s weird.”
Carrigan is going to know I’m hung up on something crazy and I
can’t bother to care.
“I think he took everyone by surprise. No one expects a dude
who looks like he’s supposed to be on the cover of a magazine to
show up in a dump,” Carrigan reasons.
I mean, she has a point.
“Nothing strange about him, though?” I press. “How about the
way those boys stopped everything and listened to him?”
“Maybe he beats them. Maybe he’s their daddy.” Carrigan’s grin
spreads and she pours herself another shot. “Guy who looks like that
can be my daddy anytime he wants. You saw the size of his hands.
What else is he packing?”
Yeah, I saw them up close and personal.
 A knock sounds at the flimsy front door and I jump out of my
skin as Carrigan stumbles to answer it. “Coming!”
My heart’s pounding way too fast.
Aspen walks into the apartment like a cool breeze seconds later,
all red hair and softness to match Carrigan’s attitude. “I hear there’s
an emergency,” Aspen says as she digs into the bag slung over her
shoulder and drags out some chocolate brownies and a pound cake.
“I brought the reinforcements.”
“That’s my girl!” Carrigan crows.
“She gets us,” I agree. I force myself to my feet and take the
treats from Aspen, blowing a couple of air kisses her way. “Thanks.”
“I saw your car dumped by the side of the road at Waters,”
Aspen says. “What happened?”
“Same old crap, different day. I think the starter is busted. I had
to walk the rest of the way to the bar.”
“No wonder you stink.” Aspen doesn’t say it to be nasty. She’ll tell
you the truth with a smile on her face no matter how badly her
words hurt. ”Like tequila and wet dog. It’s not really the best
combination in the world.”
“That’s putting it nicely.” Carrigan is quick to agree. She pushes
the coffee table out of the way and drapes a couple of ratty blankets
and pillows on the floor, spreading our haul out in the center of it
like we’re teenagers.
Which brings me right back to those guys at the bar. They’d
looked barely old enough to drink and caused enough trouble to
have Rudy ready to bring the police down here. Something he’s
never done.
“The whispers are already making their way down the threads of
communication.” Aspen folds her body down to the ground, cross
legged, and wiggles her fingers in the air in a woo woo gesture.
“Said there was trouble at the bar tonight and some hot hunk of
man meat stepped in to save the day.” Her gaze lands on me. “Said
he paid extra special attention to you, Renee.”
I scoff, uncomfortable with the attention. “I was closest to the
door when he came in. That’s all.” My finger throbs at the lie.
 “Whatever happened, I’m glad you guys are okay. I told you that
a bat would come in handy, didn’t I?” Aspen says to Carrigan. “Aren’t
you happy I made you bring it to work?”
“Very happy. A girl can’t be too careful these days. Especially in
this part of town,” Carrigan replies.
“Yet you two insist on working in a dive when you could be out
doing something—” Aspen starts.
“Legitimate,” Carrigan and I answer in unison.
We’ve heard the speech enough times to have it memorized at
this point.
Carrigan slings back her shot and I go for the bottle, not
bothering with the glass before I take a huge sip. It doesn’t burn
nearly as much this time.
“We can’t all work for Daddy at his car dealership, can we?”
Carrigan asks.
Aspen shakes her head.
They don’t know I’m dying and I want to keep it that way. Under
the radar. The lower I lay, the easier it will be for everyone.
Especially if the plan comes together.
What had the young man said when he thought no one paid him
any attention?
We’ve got a fucking Moonstone waiting for us at home.
It couldn’t be that simple, right? The object my parents insisted I
needed, the one thing they say can save my life, and it’s here?
Wherever those ass fucks call home?
“Ren.” Fingers snap in front of my face and I blink at Aspen until
my vision clears. “You drunk?”
“No, not nearly enough,” I reply. I tighten my hold on the neck of
the bottle. “I can go so much farther.”
Aspen laughs, and Carrigan takes the bottle from me.
We’ve made a weekly ritual of just this, but we’re off our
schedule. Usually girls nights are on Mondays, which is basically the
start of the weekend for two of us. Aspen is the good girl. The one
who dresses in those button ups and high waisted pants that show
off her figure. She gets her nails done and wears cute little heels.
A glance at the clock shows me it’s one a.m.
 “Thanks for coming out. I know you were in bed.” I soothe a
hand over Aspen’s knee. “You’re a sweetie pie.”
“Where else am I gonna be when my friends need me? You had
quite the upset.”
“At least he was hot,” Carrigan agrees.” You got his name
though? Didn’t you, Ren?’
“Mathis,” I agree. And something about saying it out loud has my
pulse hitching again.
“You ever seen him around before?” Aspen asks.
“I’ll see him in my dreams tonight.” Carrigan cackles loudly.
“That’s for sure.”
I’m inclined to feel the same way. The girls stay for another
couple of hours until Aspen, not drunk, drives a very tipsy Carrigan
back to her house across the city. Once they’re out the door, the
apartment is way too quiet for my liking and there’s not a chance in
hell my nerves will settle enough to let me sleep.
Mathis.
Moonstone.
Strange boys who talk in riddles and act like wild animals.
How is it all going to add up to make sense? Or is it one of those
things you have to shrug at and take with a grain of salt because
there is no answer?
My intuition tugs at me and begs me to pay attention. Rather
than fighting for sleep, I get cozy. I tap my fingers on the keyboard
nestled on my lap with a mountain of pillows at my back. The
shower hadn’t done shit for the smell but at least I feel a little better.
Wherever those boys came from, wherever they must live with
Mathis, they’ve got an object I’ve only heard about in fantastical
tales. My parents made up the story. Hadn’t they? About the ancient
goddess of the moon who decided to take pity on a young couple
and their stillborn baby. They told me about the stolen Moonstone
and sword, both somehow hidden on earth, and the goddess’s rage.
How, if I might find one or the other, I can trade it for my life.
The laptop screen is the bright guiding light in the dark of the
room with the rain steadily falling outside the windows. It’s as loud
on the roof as nails on metal but I’ve gotten used to the noises. This
part of the city never sleeps. I’ve learned to do the same.
The online search doesn’t give me much to go on, though.
There are thousands of Moon Goddesses out there.
My parents never gave me a name, either. Some kind of local
deity, if they’re to be believed. And with the pieces falling together
to make a clearer picture, I’d say their story needs a second look.
We took you to the temple in the hills and prayed. A goddess out
of time touched your lifeless body and brought you back. There’s a
price for life but if anyone can make the trade, Renee, it’s you.
It’s me.
Why is it me?
I can’t even manage to save enough money to get my shitty ass
car fixed.
How am I going to A: prove a goddess is real by B: saving my life
by C: breaking into a man’s house and stealing from him?
Seems like a lot of supposition and I’m on borrowed time as it is.
I slam the laptop lid down, the plastic pieces in the back breaking
off, and my mind going in circles. Tomorrow I’ll do a little more
investigating, when I’ve gotten a little sleep. When my blood is not
ninety percent tequila and I’m running on fumes and stress.
They made it up, I insist as I snuggle deeper into my blankets.
They made it all up.
But then why is the Moonstone part real?
And what does Mathis have to do with it all? I see him in my
head right before I pass out, squeezing my ring between his fingers
hard enough to bend the metal. He practically melted the damn
thing. That’s not normal. Right?
His hands are on me in my dreams.
His mouth is on places that haven’t seen attention for what feels
like years and every piece of him is hot enough to melt through
steel. His face is cast in shadow but the rest of him is clear, larger
than life.
If my subconscious has a second thought about why I’m in the
middle of a sex dream with a stranger, at least it doesn’t stop and
delve into my usual nightmares. At least the dream continues. In the
dream his body covers mine, pushing me down into a soft surface
below.
Until it all stops.
Every piece of it and I come awake inside my dream, standing in
a darkened area with no visible source of light and no exit.
Shit.
Whatever is happening feels too real. Goosebumps erupt over my
arms and my heart starts to pound fast enough to wake me up.
I’ve got to wake up.
A woman stalks out of the darkness and the images are
backwards. I can’t see her body or make out any distinct shape of
her, but her face is real and raw. Carved out of pure rock itself and
as ancient and young and timeless as a fantasy.
“It took you long enough to put it together,” she chastises in a
long-dead language I somehow understand.
No, this is all wrong. On the edge of panic, I glance around the
space like it will change the way any normal dream changes.
“Stop acting like a coward and face me. Your parents certainly
showed more bravery and charisma than their supposedly blessed
daughter,” the woman continues. “I expect you to have much more
backbone.”
“I’m too tired for backbone.”
“The sass.”
Maybe this is real. Maybe I’m really standing in front of a
goddess in a dream world, willing myself to wake up, knowing I
can’t unless she releases me. Or maybe this is a product of an
exhausted mind on the verge of turning to mush.
“You’re running out of time,” she continues.
“Do you have a name? Anything I can call you?”
Her dark brows furrow into a single agitated line. “Find the
Moonstone, Ren. Find the Moonstone and return it to me.”
I blink at her, the pit in my stomach growing by the second. I feel
it as I would if I were awake. Icy tendrils flicker out of the pit and
turn my insides into a winter hellscape. “Where do I go? You’ll make
the trade?”
 She’s been resistant to answering any of my questions. I’m not
sure why I expect anything different. This is not the fairy godmother
type of goddess from tales where the heroine gets her happy
ending. She is the hatchet cleaving through blood and bone. She’s
the ancient winds toppling tree limbs to the ground. The cold, dark
space between stars.
This is the one my parents approached?
Why her?
I’m not that important.
“This is more than a dream and less than reality,” the Moon
Goddess continues. “Use what little life you have left, life gifted by
me, and return my Moonstone to the temple. It’s the only way.”
“To what?” I ask as she starts to fade to black. “The only way to
save my life?”
“To save them all.”
Her form fades away and awareness trickles through my system.
I’m on my back in bed with my arms and legs sprawled out, foot
dropping over the side of the mattress. The headache blossoms from
my right temple all the way down through my eye and cheekbone.
Fuck. I must have gone to bed drunker than I thought to dream
of a goddess.
Except it feels real. The stories my parents told me growing up
about why I’m even here are not made up. I only know the closer I
get to my birthday, the sicker I’ve felt, for no discernible reason
doctors can figure out. I hide it well. I pretend it’s peaches and
roses.
The goddess is taking the rest of my life in payment for the years
she gave a stillborn baby girl.
But her words stick with me through the remainder of my
restless sleep and through the next morning. All the way back to
where my car broke down, as I try to figure out how to steal a
goddess’s stone from a strange man with a grip strong enough to
crush metal.
Chapter 4
 Torin

I push open the door to Rudy’s Bar and step inside, the smell of
sweat and alcohol hitting me like a punch in the face. Humanity.
A sneer lifts the corners of my lips. This place is packed, filled to
bursting with rowdy patrons who are shouting and laughing and
clinking glasses together.
A little early on a Saturday for that kind of thing but, humans.
There’s no dissuading them. They choose, without fail, to bury their
problems in a pint of anything cheap.
They’re useless and simpering creatures, too wrapped up in their
buzz to notice when a predator stalks through the door. Which one
has.
I stop for a brief moment and draw shallow breaths. This is the
place, though.
All thoughts for the humans must remain secondary to the real
purpose of the visit. All I care about is finding out what happened
with Mathis and his wolves. And why the fuck any of them stepped
foot into my territory.
I make my way to the bar, scanning the crowd for anyone who
might have information. Several patrons glance up from their glasses
and quickly look away. Good.
A tickle of awareness presses against my mind like an ancient
voice. Long-dead wisdom I haven’t ever had to draw on. There.
A sharp tug through my subconscious has me staring at a
beautiful dark-haired woman, cleaning up a spill on the counter with
a rag. My heart races as I walk towards her, my eyes locked on her
every move. She doesn’t belong here any more than I do.
Why is she here, then?
Does she know what she is?
Do I have even the foggiest guess?
There is an otherness about her I recognize, although I can’t
place it.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Do you work
here?”
She looks up at me, her eyes flickering with curiosity as she
brushes her attention from the top of my head to my polished shoes.
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure if Rudy started letting customers pour their
own drinks, he’d be out of business in three days, tops,” she says,
her voice soft and melodic.
My lips twitch.
Ah, she’s funny. “Probably right,” I reply.
“So, what can I get for you?” Her gaze says it all. I don’t belong
here.
I shake my head, trying to keep my focus on the conversation.
“I’m not here for a drink. I heard that there was a fight here
yesterday, do you have the names of the men involved? Better yet,
security tapes? I need to know what happened.” I drum my fingers
along the rough edge of the bar.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Are you a cop or something?”
I snort at that. I’ve been called many things in my lifetime, but I
can say, honestly, I have never been referred to as a cop. This is a
first. Enforcer, yes. Brute? Absolutely. I do whatever it takes to make
sure my people are safe, and the fight yesterday? It undermines me
and jeopardizes them.
“Something may be a better way to describe me.”
The woman pauses, waiting for me to continue. She might not
understand her place in the world, but she’s certainly lived through
enough to learn to be observant. I recognize the same trait in her
that I have myself.
I’ll have to tread lightly with the information I give away, since
she’s clearly a human, and I’m…well, I’m not. Werewolves aren’t
known to humans as anything other than what’s in horror movies or,
what I’ve seen around lately, romance novels. And that’s where our
kind would prefer that knowledge to stay. In fiction.
It’s less messy that way. And easier for us to live. Thrive.
Like I have.
I drum my fingers on the bar again and allow a hint of
impatience to shine through.
“I’m not the police,” I repeat. “But I am the owner of this
property, of this building. Rudy rents it from me.”
Ah. I love how her face immediately changes from friendly banter
to all seriousness with a tinge of worry. Good. It’s better for her to
be worried. Smarter at the very least.
“What do you want with Rudy?” she asks. Her eyes narrow. “He
had nothing to do with the fight yesterday. Those kids came out of
nowhere.”
This woman is protective of dear ol’ Rudy. I see it in her stance,
too. The sudden straightening of her spine. The further narrowing of
her eyes as she studies me, trying to see if I’m lying, trying to take
my measure. I let her see whatever it is she wants to see on my
features.
Unfortunately for her, I’ve perfected my poker face much better
than she has, just like I pride myself on reading people. And right
now, she’s screaming devotion and caution.
Two things I admire in my own underlings.
If I were to guess? She sees the old man as a father figure to
her, even if she may not want to admit that to herself. He may be
her boss, but she cares for him more than that. On a parental level.
Interesting…but not why I’m here.
“I need to speak to Rudy, then. Is he here?” I ask.
Her jaw clenches. She’s wondering how much she should tell me.
Cute. “Not at the moment,” she settles on.
I still the movement of my fingers, preternaturally so, to the
point where the woman tenses. “Is there another manager I can
speak to?” I show my teeth in a harsh smile.
“Yeah, me.”
Feisty little thing. I tamp down a flash of desire. “You?”
 “Does that surprise you?” she asks.
I blink. It does actually. She’s young. In her early-twenties, if I
were to guess. Pretty in a way that, should I make an assumption,
I’d say she’d rather not be. She’s taken great care to make her
appearance look haphazard, her espresso-colored hair up in a messy
bun and her eyes unlined. There’s only a hint of blush on her cheeks
and lips slicked with balm rather than any gloss.
“What’s your name, then, manager?” I push.
“Ren,” she answers without hesitation.
“Does that come with a last name?”
Her lip curls. She doesn’t want to tell me. Cuter yet. I might have
enjoyed plucking information from her bit by bit were she not
standing in my way.
“Wexler.”
Ren Wexler. An interesting name to match an interesting her. I’ll
have to make some calls and find out whatever I can about this Ms.
Ren Wexler. Something about her continues to tug at me and my
instincts are awake and observant. Telling me there is so much more
to her than her rather pretty exterior.
“Okay, so tell me, Ms. Wexler—”
“Ren. Call me Ren,” she cuts me off.
“I’d rather not.”
I scowl and she stares at me.
“Do I get your name?” she tosses back, full of fire.
She resumes wiping the top of the bar in a practiced move,
although the spill is already clean. Several patrons call her name
from their tables or snap their fingers to get her attention.
She’s not leaving me.
“I’m not sure what you have to discuss with Rudy,” she says.
“The fight is done. We’ve taken care of things.”
I arch a brow. “You were here?”
She stops for a moment, her breath hitching. “Three boys
thought they could come in here and get handsy with me, say shit,
before they started throwing punches. It was taken care of.”
“Oh?”
 “Some dude came in and they all pretty much stopped. No
damage done besides a few broken tables and a chair. My coworker
had a bat.”
Pride flashes her cheeks and I take note of every change to her.
The way her pulse hitches for a moment when she mentions the
man who’d arrived.
I swallow over a growl.
Mathis.
I’d heard he was here, had crossed his line and come with his
goons onto my turf.
I lean closer to Ren and balance my elbow on the bar this time.
Trying for a smile that has always gotten me my way. “And did you
know the man who came in?” I ask smoothly.
Ren shakes her head and a lock of hair falls free. I watch her
reach to tuck the hair behind her ear, watch the way her tongue
darts out to flick across her lower lip. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Her gaze tracks to her left hand and the spot of pale skin around
her ring finger.
There’s a story there. Not one I have time to investigate further.
“I’m sure it was all very stressful for you. You said they spoke to
you?” I ask. Have to tread lightly. “I only ask because another
business I rent to had a similar issue with young men terrorizing
pretty ladies.”
Lies.
Hopefully lies that will help me get to the bottom of this matter.
“You know, the normal stuff.” Ren’s voice hardens. “They were
disrespectful. Kept talking about…” She stops, catching herself. “It
almost seemed like they knew exactly what to say to get my
attention because they mentioned something I’ve had on my mind
for a while.”
“Such as?” Open and friendly. Another weapon in my arsenal,
and one I might dislike using against this girl, this fragile human. But
desperate times and all that.
Whatever answers I can gather today will help me in the fight
against Mathis.
 “Nothing. It’s silly.” Ren flashes me a smile bordering on the edge
of a grimace. “Silly things about a stone.”
My ears perk up and my instincts shift to high alert.
Rather than letting any of those things show, I up the wattage on
my grin. “You must like collecting things like that if they got you so
interested.”
“Ren! The fuck.” A gentleman, and I use the term loosely, behind
me has his empty beer bottle raised in the air, shaking it back and
forth.
I turn on him slowly and flash him a hint of fang. The threat is
clear enough, even for him.
Ren chuckles before holding up a finger for the man to wait. “Not
particularly, just a special piece I’ve been looking for. For a long
time,” she replies.
Well fuck.
It can’t be…
Worth a look.
“I guess their boss or whoever the man was has the piece I
want, that’s why I took note of him.” She says it like she has to
somehow justify her interest in him.
Mathis might be the prick of the century, but he’s a good-looking
one. He also has something I want, if Ren is to be believed. Shock
ripples through my bloodstream.
I’d heard a rumor once that Mathis had somehow found the
Moonstone of the Moon Goddess. Lost to history, or maybe even a
myth. No longer. If Mathis somehow found it, then I want it.
No more playing nice.
I tip my head toward the human, only able to muster the hint of
a smile. “Thank you for your time. I’ll leave you to it. Seems you
have many who want your attention tonight.”
Then I wait.
It’s a small matter to call Noble, my beta, and let him know what
I plan to do. To set the wheels in motion for what has to come next.
To settle in and watch the place until it closes, to see where Ren will
go next.
I’m going to need her.
 As much for information as for a bargaining chip.
The way she’d spoken about Mathis tells me enough. She’s got
an interest in him and his Moonstone, even if she doesn’t
understand the weight behind either of those things.
Much to my surprise, once the last of the stragglers make their
way out around one in the morning, Ren doesn’t go for her car or
the street. She rounds for the second door at the exterior of the
building and the apartment above it.
How did I not know?
She rents the crap-hole of a bedroom above the equally crappy
bar. How long has she been there? Rudy never mentioned an
occupant, which means he’s been pocketing her rent money rather
than reporting it to me.
A growl rumbles in my throat. Fucking humans. This is why
dealing with them needs to be handled with care. They’re always
looking for a way to pull one over on you.
Ren isn’t watching her back and that’s her first of many mistakes.
The second? How much she stands out in that red hoodie she
wears. It’s like a flag in the wind, signaling to danger.
“Hello, Ren.”
I don’t want to call her by her name but the way she stiffens as I
break away from the shadows is like music to my ears. She rounds
on me slowly and does her best to swallow down her fear. Scents do
not lie.
She’s scared of me, exactly as I’ve planned.
“Our strange overlord I’ve never met before.” She keeps her keys
out and between her fingers like some weapon should she need it.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
A flash of fangs in the dark and her gaze drops to my mouth. “A
conversation unfinished,” I tell her. “Although overlord has a lovely
ring to it. Thank you.”
“Look, if you want to talk, I can meet you for coffee before I go
to work tomorrow.” Even scared, she’s trying to be diplomatic. Poor
girl.
“Talking is the least of my concerns at this point, I’m afraid. The
conversation is not between you and me, but the man you saw
yesterday and myself. Regarding information you’ve dropped like
breadcrumbs.”
She blanches. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”
I reach for her just as she slides the key home in the lock to try
and escape.
“I think you can.”
It’s another small deal to take her. She fights against me but is
not nearly strong enough to stop me. Noble is there to help me get
her into the trunk of the black Town Car without anyone the wiser.
My beta watches me from his peripheral vision, his rich auburn
hair a dull gleam like blood in the moonlight. “Are you sure, Torin?”
he asks. “She’s the one?”
I shake my head. “She’ll be the wedge we need to crack Mathis
open wide.” I’m not sure, though. Only hopeful. I’ve got to use
whatever I have at my disposal to gain an edge.
Noble looks appraisingly at the noise coming from the trunk as
Ren beats her little fists against the interior before he groans. “I
really fucking hate these impromptu meetings.”
“I know you do.” I clap him on the shoulder, my brother in spite
of the lack of blood between us. “It’s necessary.”
I won’t thank him for setting it up. For doing his job. Noble has
fought through the ranks to get to his place the same way I did.
Now, it’s time for intimidation. Bloodshed has its place, but as the
alpha of the Steel Claw Wolf Pack, I’ve learned to lean on diplomacy.
Tonight, I’ll skirt the fine line between both.
Mathis and his pups have crossed over into our territory without
authorization or alerting me to their presence. That alone is grounds
enough for attack.
Noble looks ready to say more, his mouth drawn into a thin line,
but he nods and takes his place in the backseat. I follow a moment
later and thump on the glass to let the driver know it’s time. Time to
head into the woods.
To confront Mathis and his bunch of uncivilized assholes and
naughty children.
Ren keeps beating on the walls of the trunk, pleading with
whoever will listen to her to let her out.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Salome's burden
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at
no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the
terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are
located before using this eBook.

Title: Salome's burden

or, the shadow on the homes

Author: Eleanora H. Stooke

Illustrator: C. Howard

Release date: November 17, 2023 [eBook #72157]

Language: English

Original publication: London: S. W. Partridge & Co., Ltd, 1904

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALOME'S BURDEN ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

SALOME'S FRESH, SWEET VOICE RANG CLEARLY

THROUGH THE DIM CHURCH.

SALOME'S BURDEN

OR

THE SHADOW ON THE HOMES

BY
 ELEANORA H. STOOKE

AUTHOR OF
"MOUSIE; OR, COUSIN ROBERT'S TREASURE,"
"A LITTLE TOWN MOUSE," "SIR RICHARD'S GRANDSON,"
"LITTLE MAID MARIGOLD." ETC.

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON

S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO., LTD.

E.C. 4.

Made in Great Britain

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. SALOME'S TROUBLE

II. NEW ACQUAINTANCES

III. THE FOWLERS AT HOME

IV. "ABIDE WITH ME"

V. SALOME'S HUMILIATION

VI. PERFECTLY HAPPY

VII. AN AFTERNOON'S OUTING

VIII. AN AWFUL THING

IX. THE BLOW FALLS

X. MR. FOWLER'S RETURN

XI. JOSIAH AT HIS WORST

XII. A BRIEF REPENTANCE

XIII. MRS. FOWLER AND SALOME

XIV. A STORMY NIGHT

XV. TROUBLE AT GREYSTONE

XVI. DAYS OF SICKNESS

XVII. THE SHADOW LIFTED

XVIII. HAPPIER DAYS

Salome's Burden.

CHAPTER I.
Salome's Trouble.

IT was summer time. The day had been oppressively hot; but now, as the sun disappeared
like a ball of fire beyond the broad Atlantic, a cool breeze sprang up, and the inhabitants of
the fishing village of Yelton came to their cottage doors and gossiped with each other, as
they enjoyed the fresh evening air.

Yelton was a small, straggling village on the north coast of Cornwall. It owned but two
houses of importance—the Vicarage, a roomy old dwelling, which stood in its own grounds
close to the church; and "Greystone," a substantial modern residence on a slight eminence
beyond the village, overlooking the sea. The fishermen's cottages were thatched, and
picturesque in appearance, having little gardens in front where hardy flowers flourished;
these gardens were a-bloom with roses and carnations on this peaceful June evening, and
the showiest of them all was one which, though nearer the sea than the others, yet
presented the neatest appearance of the lot. This was Salome Petherick's garden, and
Salome was a cripple girl of fourteen, who lived with her father, Josiah Petherick, in the
cottage at the end of the village, close to the sea.

Salome had been lame from birth, and could not walk at all without her crutches; with
their help, however, she could move about nimbly enough. Many a happy hour did she
spend in her garden whilst Josiah was out in his fishing boat. She was contented then, as
she always was when her father was on the broad sea, for she felt he was in God's
keeping, and away from the drink, which, alas! was becoming the curse of his life. Josiah
Petherick was a brave man physically, but he was a moral coward. He would risk his life at
any hour—indeed, he had often done so—for the sake of a fellow-creature in peril. He was
fearless on the sea, though it had robbed him of relations and friends in the past, and if
help was wanted for any dangerous enterprise, he was always the first to be called upon;
but, nevertheless, there was no greater coward in Yelton, than Josiah Petherick on
occasions. He had lost his wife, to whom he had been much attached, five years
previously; and, left alone with his only child, poor little lame Salome, who had been
anything but a congenial companion for him, he had sought amusement for his leisure
hours at the "Crab and Cockle," as the village inn was called, and there had acquired the
habit of drinking to excess.

As Salome stood leaning on her crutches at the garden gate on this beautiful summer
evening, her face wore a very serious expression, for she knew her father was at the "Crab
and Cockle," and longed for, yet dreaded, his return. She was a small, slight girl, brown-
haired and brown-eyed, with a clear, brunette complexion, which was somewhat sun-
burnt, for she spent most of her spare time in the open air. Having passed the requisite
standard, she had left school, and now did all the work of her father's cottage unaided,
besides attending to her flowers; and Josiah Petherick was wont to declare that no man in
Yelton had a more capable housekeeper. The neighbours marvelled that it was so, for they
had not thought the lame girl, who had been decidedly cross-grained and selfish during
her mother's lifetime, would grow up so helpful; but Mrs. Petherick's death had wrought a
great change in Salome, who had promised faithfully "to look after poor father" in the
years to come. Salome had endeavoured to be as good as her word; but her influence over
her father had not proved strong enough to keep him in the straight path; and many an
evening saw him ramble home from the "Crab and Cockle" in a condition of helpless
intoxication.

"Enjoying the cool breeze, Salome?"

Salome, whose wistful, brown eyes had been turned in the direction of a row of cottages at
some distance, outside one of which hung a sign-board representing on its varnished
surface a gigantic crab and a minute cockle, started at the sound of a voice addressing her,
but smiled brightly as she saw Mr. Amyatt, the vicar of the parish. He was an elderly man,
with iron-grey hair, stooping shoulders, and a thin, clean-shaven face.

Ten years previously, he had accepted the living of Yelton, when, broken down in health,
he had been forced to resign his arduous duties in the large manufacturing town where he
had laboured long and faithfully. And the fisher-folk had grown to love and respect him,
though he never overlooked their failings or hesitated to reprove their faults.

"I am waiting for father," Salome answered frankly. "His supper is ready for him, and I am
afraid it will spoil if he does not come soon. It is a beautiful evening, is it not, sir?"

"Very beautiful. I have been on the beach for the last two hours. How well your carnations
are doing, Salome. Ah, they always flourish best by the sea."

"Please let me give you some," the little girl said eagerly. "Oh, I don't mind picking them in
the least. I should like you to have them." And moving about with agility on her crutches,
she gathered some of the choicest blooms and presented them to Mr. Amyatt.

"Thank you, Salome. They are lovely. I have none to be compared to them in the Vicarage
gardens. You are a born gardener. But what is amiss, child?"

"Nothing, sir; at least, nothing more than usual. I am anxious about father." She paused
for a moment, a painful blush spreading over her face, then continued, "He spends more
time than ever at the 'Crab and Cockle;' he's rarely home of an evening now, and when he
returns, he's sometimes so—so violent! He used not to be that."

The Vicar looked grave and sorry, He pondered the situation in silence for a few minutes
ere he responded, "You must have patience, Salome; and do not reproach him, my dear.
Reproaches never do any good, and it's worse than useless remonstrating with a man who
is not sober."

"But what can I do, sir?" she cried distressfully. "Oh, you cannot imagine what a trouble it
is to me!"

"I think I can; but you must not lose heart. Prayer and patience work wonders. Ask God to
show your father his sin in its true light—"

"I have asked Him so often," Salome interposed, "and father gets worse instead of better.
It's not as though he had an unhappy home. Oh, Mr. Amyatt, it's so dreadful for me! I
never have a moment's peace of mind unless I know father is out fishing. He isn't a bad
father, he doesn't mean to be unkind; but when he's been drinking, he doesn't mind what
he says or does."

"Poor child," said the Vicar softly, glancing at her with great compassion.

"Do you think, if you spoke to him—" Salome began in a hesitating manner.

"I have already done so several times; but though he listened to me respectfully, I saw my
words made no impression on him. I will, however, try to find a favourable opportunity for
remonstrating with him again. Cheer up, my dear child. You have a very heavy cross to
bear, but you have not to carry it alone, you know. God will help you, if you will let Him."

"Yes," Salome agreed, her face brightening. "I try to remember that, but, though indeed I
do love God, sometimes He seems so far away."

"He is ever near, Salome. 'The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the
everlasting arms.' The everlasting arms are of unfailing strength and tenderness. See! Is
not that your father coming?"

Salome assented, and watched the approaching figure with anxious scrutiny.

Josiah Petherick was a tall, strong man, in the prime of life, a picture of robust health and
strength; he was brown-haired and brown-eyed, like his daughter, and his complexion was
tanned to a fine brick-red hue. He liked the Vicar, though he considered him rather too
quick in interfering in other people's affairs, so he smiled good-humouredly when he found
him with Salome at the garden gate.

"Good evening, Petherick," said Mr. Amyatt briskly, his keen eyes noticing that, though
Josiah had doubtless been drinking, he was very far from being intoxicated at present;
"you perceive I've been robbing your garden," and he held up the carnation blooms.

"'Tis my little maid's garden, sir," was the response, "an' I know well you're welcome to
take what flowers you please. What a hot day it's been, to be sure!"

"Yes; but pleasanter out of doors than in the bar of the 'Crab and Cockle,' I expect," Mr.
Amyatt answered meaningly.

"'Tis thirsty weather," Josiah said with a smile; "don't you find it so, sir?"
"Yes, indeed I do! But I don't take beer to quench my thirst. Beer's heating, and makes
you hotter and thirstier, too. If you were a teetotaler like me, you wouldn't feel the heat
quite so much."

"That's as it may be, sir. I can't argue the point; but I hold that a glass of good, sound
beer don't hurt anyone."

Salome had retired into the cottage, remarking which fact, the Vicar seized the opportunity
and spoke plainly.

"Look here, Petherick," he said, "if you'd lived my life, you'd be a teetotaler like me—at
least, I hope you would. The big town in which I worked so long owed most of its vice and
misery to drink. I was in daily contact there with men and women lower than brute beasts
on account of the drink you uphold—men and women who would sell their own and their
children's clothes, and allow their offspring to go hungry and almost naked, that they
might obtain the vile poison for which they were bartering their immortal souls. I made up
my mind there, that drink was our nation's greatest curse; and here, in this quiet village, I
see no reason to make me change my opinion, and allow that a glass of 'good, sound
beer,' as you call your favourite beverage, doesn't hurt anyone. Your one glass leads to
more, and the result? You become unlike yourself, rough and threatening in your manner,
unkind to your little daughter whom I am certain you dearly love, and whose chief aim in
life is to make your home a happy one. I wish you would make up your mind, Petherick,
never to enter the doors of the 'Crab and Cockle' again."

"Why, sir, to hear you talk one would think I was drunk," Josiah cried, aggrievedly.

"You are not that at this minute, I admit, but you have been drinking; and if you don't pull
up in time, and turn over a new leaf, you'll go from bad to worse. Now, I've had my say,
and have finished. Your supper's waiting, I know, so I'll bid you good evening."

"Good evening, sir," Josiah responded rather shamefacedly, for in his heart, he
acknowledged every word Mr. Amyatt had spoken to be truth.

He watched the Vicar out of sight, then entered the cottage and sat down at the kitchen
table to his supper of fried eggs and bacon.

"I hope the eggs are not spoilt," Salome remarked. "But they've been cooked nearly half-
an-hour, and I'm afraid they're rather hard, for I had to keep them warm in the oven."

"Never mind, my dear," he returned. "If they're hard it's my fault, I ought to have been
here before. By the way, I've brought you a piece of news."

"Have you, father?" she said with a smile.

"Yes. Greystone is taken by a rich gentleman from London, and he and his family are
expected to arrive to-night. The house has been furnished in grand style, so I'm told."

"Did you hear the gentleman's name?" Salome asked, looking interested, for Greystone
had been untenanted for some time. The house had been built by a speculative builder, but
it had not proved a good speculation, as, beautifully situated though it was, it was very
lonely. "I wonder if Mr. Amyatt knew," she added reflectively, as her father shook his head.

"Mr. Amyatt is a very nice man in his way," Josiah remarked, "an' I shall never forget how
kind he was when your poor mother died, but he don't know how to mind his own
business. If he likes to be a teetotaler, let him be one. If I enjoy my drops o' beer 'long
with my friends at the 'Crab an' Cockle,' that's naught to do with him." And having finished
his supper, he pushed away his plate, rose from the table, and strode out into the garden.

Salome stayed to wash up the supper things, then went into the garden too, but by that
time her father was nowhere to be seen. Hurrying to the gate, she caught sight of his
stalwart figure disappearing in the distance, and knew that he was making his way to the
inn again. She stood leaning against the garden gate, sore at heart, until a chill mist from
the sea crept upwards and surrounded her; then she retreated into the cottage and waited
patiently, listening to the ticking of the tall, eight-day clock in the kitchen. She knew her
father would not return till the doors of the inn were shut for the night.

At last she heard the click of the garden gate, and a minute later Josiah Petherick
stumbled up the path, and, leaving the cottage door unlocked, crawled upstairs to his
bedroom, muttering to himself as he went. Salome waited till everything was still, then she
rose, locked the door, and swung herself, step by step, by the aid of her crutches, up the
stairs.

Before going to her own room, she peeped cautiously into her father's, which was flooded
with moonlight, the blind being up; and a sob broke from her lips at the sight which met
her eyes. The man had thrown himself, fully dressed as he was, upon the bed, and had
already sunk into a heavy, drunken slumber. Salome stood looking at him, the tears
running down her cheeks, mingled love and indignation in her aching heart. Then the love
overcame all else, and she sank on her knees by her father's side, and prayed earnestly
for him who was unfit to pray for himself, whilst the words the Vicar had spoken to her
that evening—

"'The eternal God is thy refuge,

and underneath are the everlasting arms.'"

—recurred to her memory, and fell like balm upon her sorrowful spirit. And she felt that
she did not bear her trouble alone.

CHAPTER II.
New Acquaintances.

WHEN Josiah Petherick came downstairs to breakfast on the following morning, his face
wore a furtive, sullen expression, as though he expected to be taken to task for his
behaviour of the night before. On previous occasions, Salome had, by tears and sorrowing
words, reproached him for his unmanly conduct; but this morning she was perfectly
composed, and the meal was eaten almost in silence. Afterwards, Josiah informed his little
daughter that he should probably be away all day mackerel fishing, and went off in the
direction of the beach. There was a fresh breeze blowing, and he looked forward to a
successful day's work.

Salome moved about the cottage with a very heavy heart. On account of her affliction, it
took her longer than it would have most people to get over her household duties, so that it
was past noon before she had everything ship-shape, and was at leisure. Then she put on
a pink sun-bonnet, and went into the garden to look at her flowers, pulling weeds here and
there, until the sounds of shrill cries made her hurry to the garden gate to ascertain what
was going on outside.

Salome stood gazing in astonishment at the scene which met her eyes. A boy of about six
years old was lying on the ground, kicking and shrieking with passion, whilst a young
woman was bending over him, trying to induce him to get up. At a short distance, a pretty
little girl, apparently about Salome's own age, was looking on, and laughing, as though
greatly amused.

"Gerald, get up! Do get up, there's a good boy!" implored the young woman. "Dear, dear,
what a temper you're in. You 're simply ruining that nice new sailor's suit of yours, lying
there in the dust. Oh, Margaret—" and she turned to the little girl—"do try to induce your
brother to be reasonable."

"I couldn't do that, Miss Conway," was the laughing response, "for Gerald never was
reasonable yet. Look at him now, his face crimson with passion. He's like a mad thing, and
deserves to be whipped. He—"

She stopped suddenly, noticing Salome at the garden gate. The boy, catching sight of the
lame girl at that moment too, abruptly ceased his cries, and, as though ashamed of
himself, rose to his feet, and stood staring at her. He was a fine, handsome little fellow,
with dark-blue eyes and fair curly hair; but, as Salome afterwards learnt, he was a spoilt
child, and as disagreeable as spoilt children always are. His sister, who was like him in
appearance, was a bright-looking little girl; and her laughing face softened into sympathy
as her eyes rested on Salome's crutches.

"I am afraid my brother's naughty temper has shocked you," she said. "He likes to have
his own way, and wanted to spend a longer time on the beach instead of going home. We
have been on the beach all the morning with Miss Conway—this lady, who is our
governess. What a pretty garden you have. We noticed it as we passed just now—didn't
we, Miss Conway?"

Miss Conway assented, smiling very kindly at Salome.

"I had no idea flowers would flourish so close to the sea," she remarked. "It is to be hoped
the Greystone gardens will prove equally productive."

"Oh, are you—do you live at Greystone?" Salome questioned, much interested in the
strangers.

"Yes," nodded the little girl, "we arrived last night. My father, Mr. Fowler, has taken the
house on a three years' lease. My mother is very delicate; she has been very ill, and the
doctors say the north coast of Cornwall will suit her."

"Let me see your garden," said the little boy imperatively, coming close to the gate, and
peering between the bars.

"You should say 'please,' Gerald," his governess reminded him reprovingly.

Salome invited them all to enter, and when they had admired the flowers, Miss Conway
asked if she might rest a few minutes on the seat under the porch. She was a delicate-
looking young woman, and the tussle she had had with her unruly pupil had upset her.
Gerald, however, was quite contented now, watching a bee labouring from flower to flower
with its load of honey. His sister, Margaret, sat down by the governess' side, whilst
Salome, leaning on her crutches, watched them shyly. There was a little flush of
excitement on her cheeks, for it was an unusual experience for her to converse with
strangers.

"Who lives here with you, my dear?" Miss Conway inquired.

"Only my father, miss. Mother died five years ago. Father's a fisherman; his name's Josiah
Petherick, and I'm called Salome."

"What a quaint, pretty name," Margaret exclaimed. "And you have you no sisters or
brothers?"

Salome shook her head.

"Have you—have you always been lame?" Miss Conway questioned.

"Yes, miss, always. I can't get about without my crutches."

"How dreadful!" Margaret cried with ready sympathy. "Oh, I am, sorry for you."

Salome looked gratefully at the speaker, and smiled as she made answer, "You see, miss,
I'm accustomed to being a cripple. Often and often I've wished my legs were straight and
strong like other people's, but as they are not, I must just make the best of them. Mr.
Amyatt says—"

"Who is Mr. Amyatt?" Miss Conway interposed.

"Our Vicar, miss. He lives in that big house near the church. He's such a good, kind
gentleman, you'll be sure to like him."

"Well, what does he say?" Miss Conway inquired with a smile.

"That God made me lame for some good purpose. I think myself He did it because I should
stay at home, and keep house for father," Salome said simply. "Perhaps if I was able to get
about like other people, I might neglect father, and be tempted—"

She had been about to say "be tempted to leave him," but had stopped suddenly,
remembering that the strangers knew nothing of her father; and she earnestly hoped they
would never understand how miserable he made her at times.

"As it is," she proceeded, "I do all the housework—I can take as long as I please about it,
you know—and I attend to my flowers besides."

"And have you always lived here?" Margaret asked.

"Yes, miss, I was born in this cottage."

"Doesn't the sea make you mournful in the winter?"

"Oh, no! It's grand then, sometimes. The waves look like great mountains of foam. This is
a very wild coast."

"So I have heard," Miss Conway replied. "I should like to see a storm, if no ship was in
danger. I suppose you never saw a wreck?"

"Yes," said Salome with a shudder; "only last autumn a coasting vessel ran ashore on the
rocks, and the crew was lost. You will notice in the churchyard many graves of people who
have been drowned."

"We have always lived in London until now," Margaret explained, "so we shall find life in
the country a great change. I don't know that I shall dislike it during the summer, and
Gerald is simply delighted with the beach; I expect he'll insist on going there every day, so
you'll often see us passing here. Gerald generally gets his own way, doesn't he, Miss
Conway?"

"Yes," the governess admitted gravely, looking rather serious.

"My mother spoils him," Margaret continued. "Oh, you needn't look at me like that, Miss
Conway, for you know it's true."

At that moment Gerald ran up to them. He was in high good-humour, for he was charmed
with Salome's garden; but his face clouded immediately when Miss Conway remarked it
was time for them to go home.

"No, no," he pouted, "don't go yet, Miss Conway. Stay a little longer."

"But if we do, we shall be late for luncheon, and then your father will be displeased."

"You shall have this rose to take home with you," Salome said, in order to propitiate the
child, and prevent a disturbance. She gathered, as she spoke, a beautiful pink moss-rose,
and offered it to him. "Wouldn't you like to give it to your mother?" she suggested, as he
accepted her gift with evident pleasure.

"No," Gerald rejoined, "I shan't give it to mother, I shall keep it for myself."

His sister laughed at this selfish speech; but the governess' face saddened as she took her
younger pupil by the hand, and after a kind good-bye to Salome, led him away.

"May I come and see you again?" Margaret asked as she lingered at the gate.

"Oh, please do, miss," was the eager reply. "I should be so glad if you would. I really am
very lonely sometimes."

"So am I," the other little girl confessed with a sigh; and for the first time Salome noticed
a look of discontent on her pretty face. The expression was gone in a minute, however,
and with a smiling farewell Margaret Fowler hastened after her governess and Gerald.

These new acquaintances gave Salome plenty of food for thought; and when her father
returned in the afternoon she greeted him cheerfully, and told him that the family had
arrived at Greystone. He was in good spirits, having caught a nice lot of mackerel; and
acting on his daughter's suggestion, he selected some of the finest, and started for
Greystone to see if he could not sell them there. Meanwhile, Salome laid the tea cloth, and
got the kettle boiling. In the course of half-an-hour her father returned, having sold his
fish.

"I saw the cook," he informed Salome, "and she said any time I have choice fish to sell,
she can do business with me. It seems she manages everything in the kitchen; she told
me the mistress doesn't know what there's to be for dinner till it's brought to table."

"How strange!" Salome cried. "But I forgot, Mrs. Fowler has been ill, so perhaps she is too
great an invalid to attend to anything herself."
"I don't know about that, I'm sure. It's likely to be better for us, Salome, now Greystone is
occupied. Why, you're quite a business woman, my dear! I should never have thought of
taking those mackerel up there, but for you. I should have let Sam Putt have the lot, as
usual."

Sam Putt was the owner of a pony and cart. He lived in the village, and often purchased
fish, which he conveyed to a neighbouring town for sale, hawking it from door to door.

Josiah continued to converse amicably during tea-time; and afterwards he went into the
garden, and turned up a patch of ground in readiness for the reception of winter greens. To
Salome's intense relief, he did not go to the "Crab and Cockle" that evening; but, instead,
as soon as he had finished his gardening, suggested taking her for a sail.

"Oh, father, how delightful!" she cried, her face flushing with pleasure. "Oh, I haven't been
on the water for weeks! It will be such a treat!"

So father and daughter spent the long summer evening on the sea, much to the
contentment of both; and the sun had set before they returned to Yelton.

Salome chatted merrily as, their boat safely moored, she followed her father up the shingly
beach; but on reaching their garden gate, Josiah paused, glancing towards the swinging
sign-board outside the "Crab and Cockle," still visible in the gathering dusk.

In a moment, Salome read his thoughts, and cried involuntarily, "Oh, father, not to-night!
Not to-night!"

"What do you mean, child?" he asked with a decided show of displeasure in face and tone.

"I mean, I want you to stay at home with me to-night, father! Do, dear father, to please
me! I—I can't bear to see you as—as you are sometimes when you come back from the
'Crab and Cockle'! Oh, father, if you would only give up the drink how happy we should
be!"

"How foolishly you talk!" he cried irritably. "It is not seemly for a child to dictate to her
father!"

"Oh, father, I mean no harm! You know I love you dearly! It's supper time. Aren't you
hungry? I'm sure I am."

Josiah admitted he was, too, and followed his daughter into the cottage. He did not leave it
again that night, for his good angel proved too strong for him; and when he kissed his
little daughter at bedtime, his manner was unusually gentle, whilst the words he uttered
sent her to rest with a very happy heart: "God bless you, child! I don't know what I should
be but for you, Salome. You grow more like your dear mother every day you live."

CHAPTER III.
The Fowlers at Home.
"PULL down the blind, Margaret. The sun is streaming right into my eyes."

The speaker, Mrs. Fowler, was lying on a sofa in the handsomely furnished drawing-room
at Greystone. She was a young-looking, very pretty woman, with fair hair and blue eyes;
and she was most fashionably dressed. One would have thought her possessed of
everything that heart could desire, but the lines of her face were discontented ones, and
the tone of her voice was decidedly fretful. The only occupant of the room besides herself
was her little daughter, who put down the book she had been reading, and going to the
window, obediently lowered the blind.

"There," she said, "that's better, isn't it? I won't pull the blind down altogether, mother, for
that would keep out the fresh air, and you know the doctors said the sea breeze would be
your best tonic. I do think this is a lovely place, don't you?"

Mrs. Fowler agreed indifferently; and her little daughter continued, "Such a beautiful view
we have right over the sea. And doesn't the village look pretty, and the old grey church?
There are such a quantity of jackdaws in the tower. Mother, do you know, from my
bedroom window, I can see the cottage where that poor lame girl lives? When you are
strong enough, I'll take you to visit Salome."

"I don't want to see her, Margaret. I don't like looking at deformed people, and I cannot
think why you should feel so much interest in this Salome."

"I have seen her several times now, and I like her so much. The Vicar has told me a lot
about her, too. She lost her mother five years ago, poor girl!"

Margaret paused, and glanced a trifle wistfully at the daintily-clad figure on the sofa,
wondering if she was lame like Salome, whether her mother would cease to care for her
altogether. Mrs. Fowler never evinced much affection for her daughter, whatever her
feelings may have been, though she was pleased that she was growing up a pretty little
girl, and took an interest in dressing her becomingly. But Gerald was her favourite of the
two children, and upon him she lavished most of her love. She was fond of her husband,
though she stood in awe of him. He was kind and attentive to her, but often grew
impatient at the persistent way in which she indulged their little son.

Mrs. Fowler had led a gay life in London for many years; but latterly, she had been in very
indifferent health, and after an attack of severe illness, which had left her nerves in a
shattered condition, Mr. Fowler had insisted on shutting up their house in town, and
settling in the country. He had accordingly taken Greystone, and dismissing their old
servants had engaged new ones, who received their orders from himself instead of from
their mistress.

During the first few weeks of her residence at Greystone, Mrs. Fowler had indeed been too
ill to superintend the household; and though she was now better, she was far from strong,
and was glad not to be troubled about anything. Margaret was very sorry for her mother,
whose sufferings were apparent to everyone, for she started at the slightest unexpected
sound, and the least worry brought on the most distressing headache.

"Would you like me to read to you, mother?" the little girl inquired.

"No, thank you, Margaret. What is the time?"

"Half-past three."

"Where is Gerald?"
"Miss Conway has taken him down to the beach; she promised him this morning he should
go, if he was good and attentive during lesson time. He likes talking to the fishermen."

"Dear child! I hope they will not teach him to use bad language, though I expect they are
a rough set."

"I don't think so, mother. Mr. Amyatt says they are mostly sober, God-fearing men; of
course, there are exceptions—Salome Petherick's father, for instance, often gets
intoxicated, and it is a terrible trouble to her."

"Does she complain of him to you?" Mrs. Fowler queried.

"Oh, no, mother! It was Mr. Amyatt who told me. We were talking of Salome, and he said
her father was very violent at times, quite cruel to her, in fact. Do you know, I think
father's right, and that it's best to have nothing whatever to do with drink."

Lately, since the Fowlers had left London, Mr. Fowler had laid down a rule that no
intoxicating liquors of any description were to be brought into the house. He had become a
teetotaler himself, for very good reasons, and had insisted on the members of his
household following suit. No one had objected to this except Mrs. Fowler, and now she
answered her little daughter in a tone of irritability.

"Don't talk nonsense, child! I believe a glass of wine would do me good at this minute, and
steady my nerves, only your father won't allow it! I haven't patience to speak of this new
fad of his without getting cross. There, don't look at me so reproachfully. Of course what
your father does is right in your eyes! Here, feel my pulse, child, and you'll know what a
wreck I am!"

Margaret complied, and laid her cool fingers on her mother's wrist. The pulse was weak
and fluttering, and the little girl's heart filled with sympathy.

"Poor mother," she said tenderly, kissing Mrs. Fowler's flushed cheek, and noticing her eyes
were full of tears. "Shall I ring and order tea? It's rather early, but no doubt a nice cup of
tea would do you good."

"No, no! It's much too hot for tea!" And Mrs. Fowler made a gesture indicative of distaste,
then broke into a flood of tears.

Margaret soothed her mother as best she could; and presently, much to her satisfaction,
the invalid grew composed and fell asleep. She was subject to these hysterical outbursts,
and as Margaret bent anxiously over her, she noted how thin she had become, how hectic
was the flush on her cheeks, and how dark-rimmed were her eyes.

"She does indeed look very ill," the little girl thought sadly. "I wonder if she is right, and
that some wine would do her good, and make her stronger; if so, it seems hard she should
not have it. I'll go and speak to father at once."

To think was to act with Margaret. She stole noiselessly out of the drawing-room, and went
in search of her father. He was not in the house, but a servant informed her he was in the
garden, and there she found him, reclining in a swing-chair, beneath the shade of a lilac
tree. He threw aside the magazine he was reading as she approached, and greeted her
with a welcoming smile.

Mr. Fowler was a tall, dark man, several years older than his wife; his face was a strong
one, and determined in expression, but his keen, deep-set eyes were wont to look kindly,
and he certainly had the appearance of a person to be trusted.
"Is anything wrong, my dear?" he inquired quickly, noticing that she looked depressed.
"Where is your mother?"

"Asleep in the drawing-room, father. She has had one of her crying fits again, and that
exhausted her, I think. She seems very poorly, and low-spirited, doesn't she?"

"Yes; but she is better—decidedly better than she was a few weeks ago. I have every hope
that, ere many months have passed, she will be quite well again. There is no cause for you
to look so anxious, child."

"But she is so weak and nervous!" Margaret cried distressfully. "I was wondering if she had
some wine—"

The little girl paused, startled by the look of anger which flashed across her father's face.
He made a movement as though to rise from the chair, then changed his intention, and
curtly bade her finish what she had been about to say.

"It was only that I was wondering if she had some wine, whether it might not do her
good," Margaret proceeded timidly. "She told me herself she thought it would, and if so—
you know, father, you used to take wine yourself, and—"

"Did your mother send you to me on this mission?" he interrupted sternly.

"No. I came of my own accord."

"I am glad to hear that. But I cannot give my consent to your mother's taking wine, or
stimulants of any kind; they would be harmful for her, the doctors agree upon that point.
You have reminded me that I once drank wine myself, Margaret. I bitterly regret ever
having done so."

"Why?" she asked wonderingly, impressed by the solemnity of his tone. Then her thoughts
flew to Salome Petherick's father, and she cried, "But, father, you never drank too much!"

"I was never tempted to drink to excess, for I had no craving for stimulants. It is small
credit to me that I was always a sober man; but people are differently constituted, and my
example may have caused others to contract habits of intemperance. The Vicar here is a
teetotaler from principle. He tells me that the force of example is stronger than any
amount of preaching. Lately, I have had cause to consider this matter very seriously, and I
am determined that never, with my permission, shall any intoxicating liquors be brought
inside my doors. The servants understand this: I should instantly dismiss one who set my
rule at defiance. As to your mother—" he paused a moment in hesitation, the expression of
his countenance troubled, then continued—"she is weak, and still very far from well, but,
in her heart of hearts, she knows I am right. Do not tell her you have broached this
subject to me. Come, let us go and see if she is still asleep."

"You are not angry with me, father?" Margaret asked, as she followed him into the house.

"No, no! I am not, indeed!"

Mrs. Fowler awoke with a start as her husband and little daughter entered the drawing-
room. Mr. Fowler immediately rang for tea, and when it was brought, Margaret poured it
out. At first, Mrs. Fowler would not touch it, but finally, to please the others, drank a
cupful, and felt refreshed. A few minutes later, Mr. Amyatt was shown into the room, and
she brightened up and grew quite animated. Margaret and her father exchanged pleased
glances, delighted at the interest the invalid was evincing in the conversation.
"I think I shall soon be well enough to go to church on Sundays," Mrs. Fowler informed the
Vicar. "My husband tells me you have a very good choir."

"Yes, that is so," Mr. Amyatt replied. "We are decidedly primitive in our ways at Yelton, and
have several women in our choir, notably Salome Petherick, the lame girl with whom your
daughter has already become acquainted."

"Oh, yes. Margaret has been telling me about her. She sings in the choir, does she?"

"Yes. She has a beautiful voice, as clear and fresh as a bird's! I train the choir myself, for
our organist comes from N—, a neighbouring town, several miles distant."

"By the way," said Mrs. Fowler with a smiling glance at Margaret, "my little girl is very
desirous of learning to play the organ, and her governess would teach her, if you would
allow her to practise on the organ in the church. Would there be any objection to that plan,
Mr. Amyatt?"

"None whatever," was the prompt reply.

"Oh, thank you!" Margaret cried delightedly.

"You will have to employ Gerald to blow for you," Mr. Fowler remarked with a smile.

"I am sure he will not do that!" the little girl exclaimed. "He is far too disobliging."

"Margaret, how hard you are on your brother," Mrs. Fowler said reproachfully.

"Am I? I don't mean to be. Oh, here he is!"

Gerald came into the room with his hat on his head, but meeting his father's eyes,
removed it instantly. After he had shaken hands with the Vicar, his mother called him to
her, pushed back his fair locks from his forehead, and made him sit by her side on the sofa
whilst she plied him with sweet cakes. He was her darling, and she indulged him to his
bent. When the governess entered the room, having removed her hat and gloves, there
were no sweet cakes left. Mr. Fowler rang the bell for more, and upon the parlour-maid
bringing a fresh supply, declined to allow Gerald to partake of them, at which the spoilt
boy pouted and sulked, and his mother threw reproachful glances at her husband.

Mr. Amyatt watched the scene in silence, wondering how anyone could allow affection to
overcome judgment, as Mrs. Fowler had evidently done, as far as her little son was
concerned, and marvelling that Mr. Fowler did not order the disagreeable child out of the
room. When the Vicar rose to go, his host accompanied him as far as the garden gate, and
they stood there talking some while before, at last, the Vicar said good-bye, and started
down the hill towards the village.

The Fowlers had now been several weeks in residence at Greystone, but, up to the
present, Mr. Amyatt had been their only visitor. Mrs. Fowler had not been outside the
grounds surrounding the house yet, but talked of going down to the beach the first day
she felt strong enough to attempt the walk. The children, however, had made several
acquaintances among the fisher-folk, and a great liking had sprung up between Margaret
and Salome Petherick, for, though one was a rich man's daughter and the other only a
poor fisherman's child, they found they had much in common, and, wide apart though they
were to outward appearances, they bade fair to become real friends.
 CHAPTER IV.
"Abide with Me."

THE Fowlers had been six weeks at Greystone, when, one evening towards the end of July,
Mrs. Fowler, who was daily improving in health, accompanied Margaret and Miss Conway to
the church, and wandered about the ancient building, reading the inscriptions on the
monuments, whilst her little daughter had her music lesson. By-and-by she strolled into
the graveyard, and, seating herself on the low wall which surrounded it, gazed far out over
the blue expanse of ocean, which was dotted with fishing boats and larger crafts, on this
calm summer evening.

The churchyard at Yelton was beautifully situated, commanding a view of the whole village
straggling nearly down to the beach, whilst on the eminence beyond the church was
Greystone, against a background of green foliage.

"Everything is very lovely," Mrs. Fowler said to herself, "and the air is certainly most
invigorating. I feel almost well to-night. Who comes here? Why, this must be Salome
Petherick!"

It was the lame girl who had entered the churchyard, and was now approaching the spot
where Mrs. Fowler sat. She paused at the sight of the figure on the wall, and a look of
admiration stole into her soft, brown eyes. She had never seen such a pretty lady before,
or anyone so daintily and becomingly dressed.

Mrs. Fowler, who had shrunk with the nervous unreasonableness of a sick person from
being brought into contact with the cripple girl, now that she was actually face to face with
her, was interested and sympathetic at once. She smiled at Salome and addressed her
cordially.

"I think you must be Salome Petherick?" she said. "Yes, I am sure you are!"

"Yes, ma'am," was the reply, accompanied by a shy glance of pleasure.

"My little girl has spoken of you so often that I seem to know you quite well," Mrs. Fowler
remarked. "Come and sit down on the wall by my side, I want to talk to you."

Then as Salome complied willingly, she continued, "Does it not tire you to climb here every
evening, as they tell me you do, to listen to the organ? The church is a good step from
where you live. That is your home, is it not?" and she indicated the cottage nearest to the
sea.

"Yes," Salome assented, "it does tire me a little to come up the hill, but I love to hear
music. After Miss Margaret has had her organ lesson, Miss Conway generally plays
something herself."

"Does she? Then I hope she will do so to-night. But my little daughter is still at the organ,
so we will remain where we are until she has finished. Meanwhile we will talk. They tell me
you live with your father, and that he is often away fishing. You must lead a lonely life."