Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction (67 page)

And there ain’t nothing more lethal than crazy.

I struggled to remove his iron grip from my throat, but I was losing that battle. Already, I was seeing spots and gasping for air like a fish out of water. I knew I didn’t have much longer.

I prayed for the sound of sirens. As my consciousness waned, I found comfort in the knowledge that at least someone would find Cristina before he could hurt her any more than he already had, and maybe, just maybe, they could save her. Instead of the sirens I so desperately hoped to hear, I heard a voice. A soft, weak, frightened voice.

“Let him go, Mateo,” she said faintly. Surprisingly, he did just that. I think I wasn’t the only one shocked by the sound of her voice. “I’ll go with you. I promise. Just leave him be. He means nothing to me. Let’s just leave before the cops show up.”

“Baby, you’re hurt,” he replied, standing to assess her while I pressed my chest rhythmically in an effort to manually force air in and out of my lungs. They just weren’t working fast enough for my liking.

“It’s not that bad.” Her words were a lie. I had seen the blood. There was no way she was going to just walk out the door and leave with him. She needed a hospital. I let my head loll to the side in order to look in her direction, seeking confirmation of what I already knew to be true. There was an expanding pool of blood on her abdomen. She’d been shot in the gut.

Finally, I heard the sirens. They were distant, but I heard them, and, judging by the look that overtook Mateo’s face, he heard them, too.

“Time to go,” he ordered, walking over to get her. As he did, she shot me a panicked look that told me everything I needed to know. She didn’t want to leave with him, and it was up to me to prevent it. She’d bought me the tiniest window of time to find that gun, and that’s precisely what I was going to do.

With Mateo distracted, my eyes darted all over the room until they fell upon the object of my desire. It was barely sticking out from under the sofa, its shiny barrel taunting me. Knowing that we were running out of time, I mustered my last bit of energy and shot across the floor on my stomach, extending my hand in front of me for the gun as I did. The shards of glass littering the floor ground into my chest and arm as I did, and the crunching sound that resulted instantly garnered Mateo’s attention. The look he pinned on me was murderous. Making matters worse, my initial burst came up short, leaving me a few critical inches shy of the gun. That gave Mateo all the opportunity he needed to crush me—which appeared to be exactly what he intended to do.

He stormed the five steps necessary to make up the distance between us like a bull seeing red. I fumbled against the side of the couch, trying to push myself up, but he was upon me before I had a chance. His burning brown eyes were the last thing I was ever going to see before my life was snuffed out, Mateo making good on his promise of death.

The second gunshot of the night then rang out.

My ears rang violently while I watched Mateo’s limp form fall on top of me. I immediately heaved his body away from me and looked down at his lifeless eyes, which stared up at the heavens. A place he was surely never to see.

Another two shots popped off in rapid succession.

I looked up to see a pale and shaking Cristina, leaning against the wall for support, the gun dangling loosely in her hand before it fell to the ground. Then she collapsed on top of it.

“NO!” I screamed, scrambling over to her. By the look of her shirt, she’d lost a large amount of blood. I’d seen some gnarly injuries from my time aboard crabbing vessels, but I’d never seen that much blood before. She couldn’t have had much longer before she lost consciousness—or worse. “Talk to me, Cris. Just talk to me. Don’t go to sleep, okay? I need you to stay awake.”

“I’m sleepy,” she whispered to me, and I felt my grip on her tighten reflexively, trying to keep her with me, physically and figuratively. I couldn’t lose her.

I could hear the Anchorage PD shouting as they entered the apartment building, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was the woman bleeding out in my arms.

“Don’t go,” I whispered to her, pressing my forehead against her temple. “Please don’t go.”

“I got him.” Her words were faint and distant, her lucidity waning. “He’ll never hurt me again.”

“No, he won’t.”

“So sleepy,” she slurred, her eyes rolling back into her head. Then her body went limp.

“Cristina!” I shouted just as the police announced themselves, rushing into the apartment. I could hear them talking hurriedly, asking urgent questions, wanting to see my hands, but I didn’t move. I wouldn’t let go of her.

“We need an ambulance!” one of them shouted, the other relaying on the radio how many victims there were and how many ambulances they would need. I could feel one of them beside me, asking if I needed medical attention, but I didn’t answer. I just held Cristina’s body in my arms and rocked her gently, still holding my hand over her wound as though that would help in some way.

Finally, one of the officers―a woman―bent down, lowering her face to be level mine, and told me they needed to take me to the hospital to be checked out. I fought the notion at first, but her kind eyes told me what she wasn’t willing to say. My job was don
e. There was nothing more I could do. It was time to go.

So I did.

With the aid of one of the other officers, I placed Cristina down, kissed her on the forehead as the tears rolled down my face, and stood up, leaving her behind with the female officer. As I walked out of the apartment, grief settled around me like a blanket, enveloping me in sadness and disbelief. It consumed my being and clouded my thoughts. Everything around me was reduced to a buzzing background noise. My mind was breaking down.

And, because of that, I almost didn’t hear the words that would forever change my life.

Standing in the hallway, I heard that female cop shout four simple words that were sweeter than any I’d ever heard.

“She has a pulse!”

chapter 9

Cristina

“I feel like shit,” I said as I woke up, groggy and disoriented. I couldn’t seem to force my eyes open.

“Well, getting shot will do that to a person.”

That voice. I knew that voice.

“Robbie? Is that you?”

“Your personal barnacle is here. I’m hard to shake, but I did warn you about that,” he joked, laughing nervously afterward.

“Is he—”

“Dead? Yes, he is.”

“I thought I dreamt it . . . dreamt of shooting him.”

“No, I’m pretty sure you took him down like a pro. Remind me to never make you angry.”

I managed to open my eyes a crack, and I saw him sitting beside me, his expression masking nothing. He was raw emotion. When he realized I was looking at him, he leaned forward and kissed my forehead gently, taking my hands in his.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” I whispered. “I’ve been running for so long.”

“I can’t imagine how you feel right now, but I know that, once you sort through it all, he will no longer have a hold on your life.” I found the ferocity expressed in his baby blue eyes oddly comforting. “And I’ll help you, if you want me to.”

I squeezed his hand lightly.

“That sounds perfect.”

I tried to sit up a bit and winced at the pain in my stomach.

“You should lie still,” Robbie ordered, doing the best he could to reassemble the pillows behind me. “They had to do some serious surgery. You lost a lot of blood.”

“How long will I be here?” I asked, thinking that I wanted to return home and see the family that had long ago accepted my assumed death.

“I’m not certain. The doctors won’t really tell me much, but it’ll be a while I’m sure. Maybe a week or two.”

“So, I’ll be here when you leave?” I couldn’t hide the disappointment in my voice.

“I’m not leaving any time soon, so I don’t think there’s anything to worry about just yet.”

I eyed him strangely, wondering if the pain medication I was undoubtedly on was making my brain process information inaccurately.

“But your season starts soon.”

“The next season is going to start without me,” he explained, grinning. “I agreed to surgery on my arm so I could stay. Your favorite surgeon wrote a rather extensive letter to the owners of the ship, and, for whatever reason, it convinced them to give me until next season to heal up. They’re letting me come back again as captain then.”

“What will you do in the meantime?”

“Hang out. Take care of you. Maybe get you to go for that date you stood me up on.”

“I don’t think being kidnapped counts as standing someone up,” I argued weakly.

“Excuses, excuses. I expect full sexual compensation, when you’re up to it, of course.”

“Of course,” I smiled, doing my best to stifle the giggle I felt making its way up my throat. I was pretty certain it would have done little to help my healing abdomen.

“So who’s going to take care of you after your surgery?” I asked.

“Maybe your mom can help me out,” he said with a widening smile. “Your family was contacted once the authorities put together who Mateo was. They contacted the state police down in Florida, and they followed the paper trail back to your disappearance,
Cristina Jimenez
. Your mother and sister should be here by the end of the week.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t believe I get to see them. I never thought it would be safe enough to contact them again.”

“They’ll be here soon. Very soon. But, until then, you’re stuck with me.”

“I think I can deal with that,” I said softly.

“Good, because I’m pretty sure Pam will never let you get rid of me now. She thinks I’m a hero.”

“You kinda are, Robbie.”

“And ladies do love a man in uniform . . . even if it is a cape.”

“That we do,” I laughed, regretting it instantly. “That we do.”

We bantered on in what would prove to be our standard mode of conversation: lighthearted and easy. It was a refreshing change, and one I was in desperate need of. My life on the run was over. My isolation ended. From that moment on, I would choose my path based not on what I needed to avoid, but instead on what I wanted to pursue. And it seemed like that cocky fisherman, who had swaggered his way into my life, was exactly that. The day we had met, I had caught myself a bright future with Robbie.

And I wasn’t about to look back.

About the Author

If you
’re dying to know more about me, allow me to put you at ease. I’m a sharp-tongued, sarcastic Cancer who loves vegetable smoothies, winter storms, and the word
portfolio
. I should never be caffeinated, and require at least eight hours of sleep to even resemble a human being. At thirty-six, I just now feel like I can keep a straight face while saying the word “rectum” (which is actually a huge lie because I just laughed out loud while reading this to my husband). I live with my iPod firmly affixed to my body, drive too fast, and laugh/cry at inappropriate times.

Amber may be found on social media at:

Facebook:
Amber Lynn Natusch

Twitter:
@AmberLNatusch

Website:
www.amberlynnnatusch.com

Books by Amber Lynn Natusch include:

Other Books

Undertow

Light and Shadow Trilogy

Tempted by Evil

The Caged Series

Caged

Haunted

Framed

Scarred

Fractured

Tarnished (novella)

The Caged Box Set

by Erin Noelle

A young shifter who has been captured and abused is eventually unleashed in more ways than she could imagine.

Images of that day play through my mind like it was yesterday.

Momma was working in the garden, tending the herbs she used to not only cook with, but to make homeopathic remedies for the pack. Pop was with some of the other men, gathered in the middle of the street that ran down the center of the homes in our camp, as they whispered about something that had everyone on alert for a few weeks.

I remember sitting outside in the front yard drawing in the dirt, waiting for my brothers and Olivia, who we called Livi, to get back from their fun in the adjacent forest. I had been allowed to join them a few times before, but because I was the youngest female in the pack, and something had obviously gotten the hair standing up on my father’s back, I had been restricted to staying in the village.

I remember hoping that Livi hadn’t shifted that day; I knew she was getting close to her awakening, which usually occurred around the age of twelve or thirteen, and I wanted to be there to witness it. I had no doubt her wolf would be every bit as beautiful as her human, and as her closest friend, I was just as anxious as she was for it. I had heard my brother, Blake, telling his friends that he sensed it was close, and that once Livi did change, he was claiming her as his for good. I wasn’t sure what all that meant exactly, but I knew having Livi around more made me happy, and that was all I cared about.

Seconds after I heard the first cry of alarm, the sound of shots pierced the air. Men who had been huddled together broke apart instantly, each rushing for his own home. Howls from our family members and friends in the forest alternated with more gunshots, much closer no
w, as everyone around me quickly shifted into their wolf and assembled in the middle of our village, prepared to attack as the slayers got closer.

“Lelah! Get in the house! Now!” my mother screamed at me, but I couldn’t move. I sat in the yard, frozen in time, watching the activity around me almost as if I were in a dream.

Within minutes the men—slayers—stormed our camp, and despite the strength of our wolves, our pack was no match for the guns these men carried. I watched as Pop charged the men, trying to fight for us, but he was quickly shot in the back of the head. With a pained howl, he collapsed in a heap to the ground. Seeing her mate murdered sent Momma into a blind rage, but as she rushed the tall, light-skinned man, he lifted his shotgun and blasted her between the eyes.

The entire time, I just sat there. I didn’t stand up, I didn’t run, and I didn’t scream .
 . . I just sat there and watched them decimate my pack.

A sudden silence suffocated the village—no more howling, no more yelling, no more bullets; a silence so deafening I actually had to cover my ears. That was when the man’s gaze caught mine; I could see the glint of excitement in his eyes from a hundred yards away.

He stalked toward me with long, purposeful strides. Grabbing me by my long chocolate-brown hair, he dragged me to my feet and called out to his friends, “
J’ai la jeune fille. Où est la plus ancienne
?”

The others ransacked and pillaged our cottages, looking for something or someone, but the leader never left my side. He kept staring at me and saying things in French that I was just as happy I couldn’t understand. His smell made my skin crawl, and for the first time in my young life, I had the urge to growl.

His companions all returned, seemingly displeased, and from the tone in their voices I thought they were arguing with one another. One of the men, the short, bald one, grabbed my face and asked me in English, “Where is your whore wolf friend?”

Refusin
g to answer him, I just stared into his black eyes, my lips clenched in a tight line. I hoped he was speaking of Livi, and the thought that she was still alive made me smile slightly.

An evil laugh escaped the bald man’s mouth. “You think this is funny, you filthy little slut? We’ll see who’s smiling tonight, wolf girl, as I’m tearing apar
t—”

Before he could finish his thought, the leader slapped him across the face and scolded, “
Elle est à moi
!”

Looking at me one last time before walking away, the bald man spit in my face and confirmed my assumption. “I’m going to find your friend, bitch. I will make her pay for eluding me, and I’m going to make you watch when I do.”

The next thing I knew, I was blindfolded and collared, thrown into the back of some sort of vehicle, traveling to what I would later learn was their temporary camp. That was the beginning of my life in captivity; the life I’ve lived for more than ten years now. The life I wish had been taken the day the rest of my pack met their maker.

There have been two bright spots in my life since that day, keeping me alive, keeping me sane—the day that I killed the short, bald man, gaining freedom for just two days, and the hope that Olivia was alive, fighting to save me from this place.

• • •

Twenty years I have been on this earth and for more than half of them, I have been a prisoner to the Frenchman. His friends call him EJ, but I refuse to think of him as anything other than
the
Man
. I am his property, he is my owner; nothing else. I don’t need to think of him by name or in any way that may trick me into thinking there is anything humane about him. He has taken everything from me—my family, my best friend, my pack, my virtue, my wolf, my life. He keeps me with a collar around my neck and walks me on a leash as a reminder that I am a prisoner . . . his prisoner. If ever given the chance to kill him, I would do so in a heartbeat, with no regrets.

I haven’t seen him in over a week now; he left in a hurry one afternoon and told me he would be back soon. Ever since then, one of his friends has been bringing me my meals and administering my injection each day, but other than that I haven’t seen or spoken to anyone.

When the Man is here, he regularly takes me out of my cage and walks me around on my leash, making me sit at his feet while he performs his daily tasks. The injections are to ensure that I don’t change into my wolf again. The one time that happened, the bald-headed bastard who spit in my face paid the ultimate price before I escaped. I ran free through the forest for a little over a day after that, but having no idea where I was or how to leave the area, the Man and his friends caught up to me quickly.

That was nearly six years ago. I’ve almost forgotten how it feels to be in my wolf form, and wonder if I’ll ever experience it again.

I lie down on the hard, frozen ground hoping to sleep yet another day away, but I am quickly awakened by chaos in the camp. The men are yelling with panicked worry in their voices, their footsteps shaking the earth as they frantically scurry about. Outside the entrance to my area, I hear one of them telling another, “EJ
est mort. Nous devons quitter maintenant. Obtenez la jeune fille. Dépêchez-vous.
”

I’m still not fluent in French, but I’ve been around it long enough to know what the first sentence meant. The Man was dead. I don’t even know what to think, and I’m not sure what this means for me. Part of me is hopeful that maybe I’ll finally find my freedom, but a larger part is scared that the small amount of protection that he offered me from his friends has now disappeared, and that the hell I’ve been living is only going to get worse.

Suddenly one of them bursts into my cage, grabs me by my leash, and forcefully pulls me to my feet. Without a word, he drags me out into the icy air and throws me into the backseat of a car. He cuffs my hands behind my back before moving around the car and sliding into the driver’s seat. Minutes later we are on the move, leaving our campsite behind.

Soon the thick foliage gives way to open countryside, and then I begin to see the makings of a town. The town quickly becomes a city; well, at least I think it is anyway. There are buildings and homes everywhere, and all of the signs are written in English. I can’t stop looking out the window, in complete awe of the sights whizzing by me through the glass. Then I see it; I can’t remember the name of it, but the tall thin building with the big clock on the top of it tells me that we are in London.

My heart aches as I think about my momma and how she always talked about how she wanted to visit London one day. Pop had promised he’d get her there, but neither of them ever made it.

Here I am, Momma, I think to myself. I hope you can see me.

My eyes well up with tears as I think about how much I miss them. The overwhelming emotions building internally are tempting my wolf as the medicine from the morning begins to wear off. A growl escapes my lips, which causes the driver to look back up at me. The fear in his eyes in unmistakable, and I weigh my options.

Unfortunately, I don’t have time to do much because moments later the car pulls up
behind a building that appears to be an old cathedral. The driver grabs something out of the front seat, then scurries around to my door. As soon as he swings the door open, I lunge at him, but he grabs me by the hair, yanks my head to the side, and jabs a needle into the side of my neck.

Immediately losing all feeling in my body, I fall to the ground and everything around me fades to black.

• • •

Waking up on a tiny cot that has been shoved inside what appears to be a storage closet of some kind, I try to
get my bearings. My head is still cloudy as I try to recollect the events that led to me being here.

I swing my legs over the side of the makeshift bed and attempt to stand up, but clumsily stumble into a shelf. As I slam into the metal structure, a bible falls off the ledge and memories coming flooding into my mind. I’m in a church .
 . . the Man is dead . . . they brought me here . . . they drugged me.

Shaking my head, trying to knock the cobwebs loose, I hold on to the shelf as I feel my wolf grumbling deep inside me, yearning to be free. I don’t have enough room in here to shift, plus I need to figure out where I am and what’s going on before I do anything stupid and get myself killed. I don’t know what purpose I serve to these other men, especially now that the Man is gone, but my gut tells me that without him, they lack leadership and organization.

The noise I made getting up must have alerted someone outside, because I hear voices and footsteps heading my way. I don’t know whether to be good and do what they say, or to try to fight them. As the door creaks open, I see an unfamiliar face enter the room. The man is rather old, his face wrinkled and hair solid silver, and he’s dressed in a long black robe and a silver cross hangs low around his neck. I cower in the corner as far away from him as possible as he enters the room, with my back against the wall and no place to go, before he squats in front of me.

“Calm down, child. There’s nothing to fear. I’m Father Luke and you’re in my care now,” he assures me calmly. He reaches out to touch my arm, but I jerk my arm away swiftly, afraid he will strike me. Chuckling under his breath, he pulls back and stands up. “Suit yourself then. If you prefer to spend your time in this room, I won’t force you out. Just knock on the door when you’re ready.”

He turns around to exit the room, but before he makes it out the door, I call out in a hoarse voice, “Wait!”

I need to get out of this room; I need to figure out what in the world is going on. Shakily, I rise to my feet and take the few steps that separate me and the priest, accepting his outstretched hand and trailing behind him out into the light.

I follow him down a short hallway with several closed doors, the walls painted a deep maroon and the dark floors made of distressed wood. At the end of the corridor are two large wooden double doors, which we pass through into a breathtaking chapel. The ceilings appear as if they reach into the heavens, each window made of intricate stained glass, and the overall decor imperial and majestic.

As I inhale deeply, the scent of furniture polish fills my nostrils, reminding me of Momma when she would clean the house. Even after all these years, the ache I feel in my heart never subsides when I think about my slain family. The pain quickly turns to anger as I remember who I’m here with. He may be a man of the church, but he’s somehow associated with the monsters who have kept me captive for so long.

Ripping my hand from his, I growl, “What do you want from me?
What do you want from me
?”

His warm smile rapidly fades and his eyes
instantly change from friendly and inviting to cold and cruel. He brings his hand to the collar that is still fastened around my neck, and leans in to whisper in my ear.