Beauty And The Feast: A Not So Urban Fantasy (Wendigo Girl Book 1) Read online

  Copyright Kaye Draper 2017

  Chapter 1

  Calf-deep in the cold water, I lost my balance on the slick rocks, windmilling my arms. Precious booze spilled across my hand and into the dark water as I caught myself. God, Tess don’t waste the wine!

  "You son of a bitch!" I shouted up at the night sky. "You took every fucking thing I had." I waved the wine bottle, as if anyone was listening. As if anyone cared. "Might as well take me too!" I took a swig of the dark red, shuddering at its dry, bitter bite. God I hated wine. But I wanted oblivion, and cooking wine was all I had.

  Despair swamped me, suffocating as it washed over me on the heels of my anger. I staggered back to the beach, skinning my toes and probably losing a toenail on the damned wave-smoothed stones scattered across the Lake Huron lakebed. I skirted boulders taller than a person. Reaching the shore, I turned back to the water again, the dark forest of pine and birch quiet behind me.

  "Why won't you take me too?" I half-breathed, half sobbed. It was too much. I'd lost my child, watched his bright smiling face so full of life grow gaunt, his eyes become shadowed with the knowledge of things no child should know as his little body succumbed to his disease.

  Still lost and reeling, raw and damaged, I had stared blankly at the ER doctor who told me—only a month later—that my husband, Barrett, hadn't survived the car wreck.

  He had held me together after our son died—tenuously but with some semblance of hope. Then he was gone too.

  Tonight, I arrived home from my part-time job, exhausted from wearing the mask I wore around normal people. And found my dog dead in my living room.

  It was the absolute last fucking straw. Why did death insist on stalking me, but always leaving me behind?

  I took another swig of the wine, cursing when I realized it was the last mouthful. I stared out at the cold depths of the lake that had swallowed so many sailors and tried to convince myself that drowning would be less painful than living.

  As if in protest to my thoughts, a chill wind kicked up, rustling the branches of the watching trees, making them creak and groan, tangling its icy fingers in my hair.

  Goosebumps sprang up on my arms, which were bared in my thin T-shirt. I should have dressed warmer—but hey, I wanted to travel light on my journey to the afterlife.

  I wiped my blurry, swollen eyes and heaved a massive sigh. Turning, I took a few steps away from the water, toward the wooded path that led back to the house, back toward what little life and sanity I had left. The breeze hadn't quit. The hair on the back of my neck prickled and it felt as though something was crawling over my skin—like the first hints of energy before a lightning strike.

  "What the hell...?"

  A dark shape broke free from the shadows and hit me square in the chest. I rolled across the gritty sand, screaming, sobbing. Pain shattered through my body. Not only physical pain, but every painful memory I had, flooding me, leaving me shivering and gasping in shock.

  Something sharp raked my shoulder and down my arm. Hot blood spattered across the moonlit sand in dark patterns as I tore at the ground trying to get free of whatever had me.

  The world spun in a boozy, adrenaline-spiked haze and sharp talons caught at me, finally snagging on the waistband of my jeans. I screamed again, my throat raw and ragged. I knew that whatever was going on, I was going to end up raped and dead. Though maybe not in that order.

  There was so much blood.

  Cold snaked up over my body like piercing shards of ice against my skin as the thing crawled the length of me.

  There was enough moonlight for me to see teeth, a cavernous maw of needle-sharp yellow-white death longer than my fingers. A long tongue slipped out and licked my throat, bathing me in the scent of decayed flesh. Then it sank all those nasty teeth into my shoulder in a bite that burned like acid.

  Hunger roiled through me, like nothing I had ever felt, like a match igniting dry grass as the unending ravenous need spread through me, consuming everything I was.

  The thing that sprawled atop me grunted and shook as if taking a blow. It exhaled death on me once more before a booted foot flashed past my head and struck it again, sending it rolling off me.

  I crawled to my knees away from the monster and huddled, shaking, as I watched a tall, shadowed form approach the thing. The monster hissed and moonlight glinted on sharp teeth and blue-white eyes that burned with the intensity of the hottest flame against the cold blackness that surrounded them. Then something flashed, metallic and quicksilver in the moonlight and the thing howled in pain and darted off into the woods.

  My dark rescuer paced close to me, movements lightning-quick. Long, fingers grasped my chin none too gently, biting into my skin, burning hot against the chill that gripped me. Glowing yellow eyes stared into mine.

  "Drunk," a husky voice breathed. My chin was released with a jerk and a rude tsk. And then my savior was gone.

  I sat there on the shore of Lake Huron, looking out at the sparkling moon-lit water, my breath coming in jerky sobs. What the hell had just happened?

  My shredded shoulder started to pulse with pain, the blinding stabs perfectly timed to those in my head. My face was suddenly in the sand, and I think I inhaled a leaf.

  My last thought was to wonder, if after all that I was going to die of suffocation.

  But after all, hadn’t dying been the whole point?

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  I came to slowly, as if my brain and body were reluctant to get back together. Not that I blamed them. I didn’t want anything to do with either one of them right now.

  My whole body was stiff and achy. There was an increasingly urgent press of something hard through the layers of my clothes and skin as if it were trying to tunnel into my hipbone. Mustering every last bit of my courage, I rolled over.

  My body screamed at me, but at least I had rolled off the rock that had apparently been wedged under my right hip all night.

  I hissed and threw an arm over my sensitive eyes when the light hit them. That hurt too, sending pain lancing through my whole left side. My shoulder burned, radiating pain down my arm and up my neck into my head.

  I don't know how long I lay there, breathing slowly and hoping I would pass out again. It didn't happen.

  "Well hell."

  I sat up to blink blearily at the scene that greeted me. The uncooperative sky was clear and robin's egg blue under a few wispy white clouds. Storm clouds, or at least some fog, would have better suited my mood—and my hangover. I squinted at the sun reflected on the innocently sparkling water. Small waves lapped rhythmically against the shore, their glint and dazzle sending sharp stabs of pain through my head. Scowling, I got up and kind of half-stumbled, half-crawled to the water's edge to fetch the wine bottle which was in the process of getting washed away. I might be in a terrible mood, but there was no need to litter.

  "You," I said in an accusatory tone, tilting the bottle up to dump out the water. "We cannot be friends." My head was still pounding, making little flashes in my vision in time with my heartbeat. I was not cut out to be an alcoholic. Unfortunately.

  It seemed no matter how hard I tried, there was no escape from my life, not even in numbness.

  I stood up straight, and only then registered what I had seen when I picked up the bottle. I turned my stinging left arm to and fro, examining the angry red marks there. They started out as deep, crusted-over gouges at my shoulder, then trailed to irritated scrapes down my forearm, as if something with claws had grabbed me.

  Pain speared through my already throbbing head as the memory of needle-sharp teeth and burning
eyes flashed through me. "Oh shit!" I turned my head, sending pain dancing through my body as I retched.

  Thankfully, there hadn't been much in my stomach besides a bottle—or two—of wine last night so it didn’t last long. What the hell had happened?

  I cast about the rocky beach, finding my shoes. I had worn flip-flops down here the night before, but one of the thongs was broken. Sighing, I scooped them up and slogged toward the path that led away into the woods.

  My little cabin was a sight for sore eyes. It had once been a seasonal hunting lodge, then someone had turned it into a summer rental. But it was old, and though it boasted lakefront footage on a Great Lake, it was too far from town and the beach was too rocky to make it worth the upkeep. Which made it perfect for my wallet.

  I trooped up the stairs to the small back deck which had been built around the trunk of a leaning cedar tree and opened the sliding glass door. The track stuck and grated at me crankily in welcome, and I used more force than strictly necessary. It banged shut behind me and I dropped my ruined footwear on the rug. I half-expected Lucky, my golden retriever, to meet me at the door with her usual wriggling enthusiasm. But then I remembered I'd buried Not So Lucky the night before. Hence the drinking spree.

  "Well, shitballs," I said to no one.

  I slouched across the living room and into the narrow kitchen to make coffee, trailing a hand along the knotty pine paneling as I went.

  After my husband and son died, I had sold everything I owned and used the money—every penny I had—to buy and winterize the cabin which came complete with its old but serviceable furniture and appliances. It was simple, picturesque, and most importantly it was in the middle of nowhere.

  Not So Lucky and I had lived here alone for just shy of a year now. I survived as a reclusive writer who sold just enough awful horror novels to pay the utilities, and worked enough hours at the village library to buy dog food. Not that I'd need that anymore.

  I sighed and breathed in the aroma of the coffee grounds as I set the magical stuff to brew. My throat burned and I swallowed then cleared my throat, to no avail. It was probably raw from all the screaming, but it would be just my luck if I ended up sick on top of everything else. I shuffled to the fridge and got a bottled water. It tasted stale. I turned the bottle in my hand, checking for a date. Still good for a year.

  "Whatever." I wasn't in the mood to care. I chugged the water. My throat still felt raw and now I was hungry. All I really wanted to do was shower and sleep. But I had a manuscript to finish and errands to run.

  I reached for a forlorn can of V-8 tomato juice that was hidden in the back of my mostly-empty fridge. I hated the stuff, but my psychotic father loved it. He'd left it here a couple months ago when he had roused himself for one of his infrequent, passive-aggressive visits.

  I cracked the can open and took a swig to quiet my roaring stomach. Flavor exploded on my tongue. It certainly wasn't stale. I greedily chugged the rest of the thick, tangy-salt mixture. Then looked around behind the milk and eggs for another can with no luck.

  The coffee maker started that gurgling sound that meant it was almost done. Shaking my head at my sudden change in taste, I tossed the V-8 can into the big enameled sink to be rinsed out and got some coffee.

  My throat felt better at least, and I wasn't having hunger cramps.

  Taking my coffee, I padded into the bathroom and attempted to melt the last of my hangover away with scalding water and lemon soap.

  When I emerged, I was finally feeling vaguely human again—or at last as close as it gets with me. That is, until I wiped the steam from my little medicine cabinet mirror and got a good look at my neck and shoulder.

  I knew it wasn't going to be pretty—during my shower, I had to pat it with a wet washcloth to get it clean because the water hitting it made me nauseous, and the water going down the drain had been rather pink-tinged—but still.

  During my walk back to the cabin I had decided—more to keep my mind off the cuts and scrapes I was inflicting on my bare feet traipsing through the woods than from any serious need for contemplation—that my "monster" the night before had probably been a wild animal. I had passed out on the beach by the national forest and been gnawed on by a coyote or a fox or something. Some tourist out wandering the beach in the moonlight had scared it away and then I'd probably scared the tourist away.

  As I stared into the mirror at the oozing, gaping wound on my shoulder, I mentally upgraded the "coyote" to "bear."

  "Too bad it didn't finish eating me," I muttered. Then I met my own blue eyes in the mirror. I had understandably lost some weight over the last year or so, but I always had plenty to spare. I'd never looked so hallow before. I poked at the dark circles under my eyes.

  "Get it together bitch," I told myself. Then I sighed and my expression softened, showing me all the pain I hid from even myself. "Really," I whispered to the stranger in the mirror. "What are we going to do?"

  I swallowed my rising anxiety. Unable to meet my own round, lost eyes for a moment longer, I took a big swig of my coffee and sugar. Then I opened the medicine cabinet. My bear bite looked infected. It also probably needed stitches. I pulled out the Neosporin and a box of bandaids. Health insurance co-pays were a luxury I couldn't afford writing crappy horror novels. And hospitals tended to give me panic attacks.

  Chapter 2

  After I'd cleaned my wound, slathered ointment on it, and plastered it with about a million of those extra-wide Band-aids, I pulled on a t-shirt and well-worn comfortable but ugly as hell jeans. Then I climbed into Old Reliable, my red and white 1990 S-10, and headed into town.

  Calling Manitou a "town" might be generous. It had been a bustling lumber and shipping town in the 1800's, but it hadn't grown much since then. Now the docks along the Thunder Bay river, which lead out into the “freshwater sea” were used for glass bottom boat tours of the hundreds of shipwrecks that littered the bottom of Lake Huron's marine sanctuary, perfectly preserved in its clear, salt-free water.

  I drove through town and pulled up to the post office, striding past the honest to God twelve-foot tall wooden Indian that guarded the door. If hinky decorations were the price I had to pay for upper Michigan's quiet beauty—and blessed solitude—then so be it. I dropped off the proof copy of my latest novel, all marked up with the changes I'd like to see, and paid the postage. My publishing company was small and I had to do a lot of the actual work involved in the physical publishing process. But once this was out I could pay my property taxes for another six months, so whatever.

  I didn't meet the eyes of the perfectly curled and overly cheery postal worker who asked me if I needed insurance on my package. Dealing with actual people was hard these days, particularly happy, cheery people. I kept my eyes slightly downcast as I paid for the postage on my Bubble Wrap padded envelope. I watched a big, gnarly blue vein pulse in her neck, just peeking past her floral knit top. Her skin was sagging with age. She'd probably be chewy.

  There was something wrong with my brain.

  "Have a nice day," she crooned in that nice older-lady-who-bakes-cookies voice.

  I forced myself to meet her grandmotherly hazel eyes. "Thanks." I forced a big 'ol mid-westerner smile—the kind I remembered distantly from when I used to live in the suburbs and pack lunches and actually go someplace to work with real people. "You too."

  The smile faded as I walked away. My throat hurt, and the disconnected, floating sensation of anxiety washed over me. Dissociation, they called it. But no matter how hard I tried, I was still trapped here in this body and this reality.

  Someone was leaning against the wooden Indian when I left the post office. I didn't meet her eyes, but my fleeting glance took in a lean female form wearing lots of black—black tank, black leather pants, black boots. I glanced around the parking lot looking for her motorcycle. Bikes were one of the few things that still had any appeal to me these days—maybe it was the whole sexy speed and risk of imminent death thing.

  If I had one, I'd rid
e it without a helmet. Not because I believed that wasn't the most idiotic thing a person could do. It was stupid. But because I was tired. Because I really didn't want to be here anymore.

  The lean figure unfolded as I passed and I smelled something odd—smoke of some sort. A biker and a druggie. Awesome. I walked on, ignoring her.

  Ah-ha! There was the bike. It was parked all cozied up next to my truck. I frowned. Seriously, people had no sense of personal space. The entire parking lot was empty and she had to park there?

  My hand was on the door handle when a husky voice spoke from right behind me.

  "I wounded it," she said in an emotionless tone. “It was stronger than I anticipated. But I will find it and kill it.”

  In my shock, I actually met her eyes. Now that I was paying attention, I could see she was very muscular. Her shoulders and arms, bared by her black tank top, were borderline too muscular for a girl. I admit, I stared. She had sleek, thick black hair cut into one of those edgy angled cuts that my nappy frizz could never pull off. Her skin was a beautiful sun-kissed shade, and she had a strong, angular face with high cheekbones and intense golden-brown eyes.

  Apparently, she was also crazy. "Um...okay," I said, opening my door and inching away from her.

  She made a weird face and grabbed my upper arm in a bruising grip—right over the damned animal scratches.

  "Stop." Her low voice was commanding. For some dumb reason, I listened rather than getting the hell out of there.

  I stood there in shock while her deft fingers tugged the neck of my shirt down to expose my wound. When she started pulling the Band-Aids off, I finally moved. "Hey! What the hell?" I pulled away and she frowned.

  "I didn't realize it bit you." She chewed her bottom lip as if thinking. "But it should be okay. It will be dead soon." Then she pressed her wrist to my forehead. "You aren't feverish."

  I yanked away and glared. "What--"

  Then it all clicked.

  The black-clad ninja (or innocent tourist depending on which version of my story I was currently believing) from the night before. "It was you." I clutched the side of the pick-up's door, putting it between me and her. "What was that thing?"