Page 1 of Haunted By the Shadow of Death

Chapter One

It felt like centuries had passed since Death Day, when most of the world had died, and at least a decade since I’d left New York and come to Groza’s pack with Duncan. It hadn’t even been a month since I mated with Kicks and came here to the Arkansas pack’s temporary compound. And yet here I was moving––again.

Kicks’ pack bustled around the quaint street in front of the boutique hotel we’d been staying in. A dusting of snow covered the ground as the pack prepared to leave for Arkansas. A chilly wind blew, giving an excuse for the shiver that ran through me.

Kicks’ pack didn’t hold any of my fears and were near bristling with excitement about going home as they loaded up the ATVs and motorcycles as best they could. Any larger vehicle would be too difficult to navigate or gas-guzzling to manage. The highways and roads were a parade of crashes, a lasting calling card of Death Day that would remain until nature slowly covered the wreckages as the years passed. The bodies would slowly turn to dust, with too few of us left living to remember. Even fewer left after what had happened at Groza’s pack.

My eyes were drawn north as I remembered what had happened there. If I squinted, I could see the top of the tallest building of the historic little village in the not-so-far-off distance. I’d thought I’d be living the rest of my life out there. I’d imagined raising Charlie there, with that pack. It hadn’t been ideal, but nothing was since Death Day.

But the pack there had begun to accept us both—except for its alpha, Groza. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d still be there in my little cabin. If she hadn’t sent her thugs after me time and time again, maybe I wouldn’t have so many deaths on my hands.

But she had, and I did.

Then I’d thought we’d be at this hotel for at least a few months. That Charlie would be able to see his friends for a while. Not now, not after what had happened. Not after the day when the pack had seen what I could truly do, killing with a touch. That reality had torn through any façade of cooperation between Kicks’ pack and Groza’s. According to the letter from Duncan, I’d be dead if I even set a foot back there.

So here we were, moving again. I was dragging my little brother Charlie to a new pack, a new home, a new set of unknowns. I’d be walking in blind, not knowing who was friend and who was foe. Once upon a time, I’d thought of moving like a fresh start. Now it felt like opening up another Pandora’s box, waiting to see what would pop out next.

All the nasty surprises made me ache for the mundane. I wanted off this hamster wheel in hell. I didn’t feel as if I were running on solid legs but bumping along the bottom, trying to find something to hold on to and everything breaking off in my grasp.

We still didn’t know what had caused this utter upheaval in the world and caused so many to die in a single moment. Would we ever? How could we when no one had time to stop and take a breath, let alone investigate something of that scope? Life was a nonstop race to survive, and it might be like that until the day I died. One scramble after another, barely getting by before another disaster was lobbed at us.

My body suddenly seized. I could barely move in the middle of the hustling activity around me as I tried to breathe in air that felt too thin.

“Stop overthinking things,” Widow Herbert said, cutting through the panic.

She was a ghost from my past that haunted my present, another life lost to the chaos. I’d never forget the day she died after crossing the river. I’d never stop regretting bringing her and feeling the weight of her death on my conscience.

“Are you paying attention to me?” she said, not one to be ignored. “You don’t have time for an emotional crisis right now. These people around you, they are the ones who will be vouching for you at the new pack. You need to show strength. Fall apart when you’re alone.” Her gray hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her eyes saw too much.

For someone who used to be a psychologist, her advice sucked at the moment. Wasn’t she supposed to help me talk through my feelings? What kind of crap was this? Swallow it down until no one could see and then collapse into a wreck all alone? Some therapy that was.

She must have read my thoughts, because she was rolling her eyes. “These aren’t civilized times,” she said, sounding more like a drill sergeant than someone concerned about my mental well-being. “A decade ago I would’ve let you come in and cry away on my couch, but that was before everything went to hell. Consider me more of a wartime consigliere, if you will. I’m more concerned with keeping you alive. We’ll patch up your psyche after your survival has been secured.”

What was she doing with herself when she wasn’t here with me? I’d thought she was in heaven, hanging out with her late husband, Walter. Were they having mob movie marathons up there? If she started talking about people sleeping with the fishes, I’d have to rethink her final destination.

She was right, though. I forced air into my lungs and then focused on moving toward the hotel, trying to appear busy. It might have the added benefit of losing Widow Herbert. Typically I found comfort in her appearances, but not the version that had shown up today.

She dogged my steps. “You can’t look weak. Even after we know them, soft is a bad look with this bunch of shifters. This is a new world. You have to adapt or die. When times get hard, people want to ally with the strong, not hold hands with the weak.”

Well, she was achieving one thing for sure—I was no longer on the verge of a panic attack; now I was trying to not yell at her and point out that I hadn’t melted down into a mess in the middle of the street. I’d paused for a second to gather myself. Hardly a meltdown. Had I wanted to? Yes. Since the world had fallen apart, I’d wanted to crumble right with it every day of the week. I hadn’t, or at least not anywhere with witnesses.

I might be young, just shy of twenty-one, but I felt like I’d just lived through World Wars I, II, and III. I’d aged decades in the course of months. I was a lot tougher than she was giving me credit for.

I glared at her, hoping she read at least some of that in my expression. It was the best I could do with all these shifters around who could hear the softest whisper. I’d already gotten the boot from one pack for killing in a very uncomfortable and unnatural manner. Talking to ghosts wasn’t going to give me a leg up with this one.

“I know, and I do give you credit,” she said. “You’re a tough one for sure. But you can’t let yourself go soft, not even for a second.”

I shrugged, her acknowledgment taking a bit of the sting out of her words. She was right. I couldn’t afford to. It wasn’t just my life on the line but Charlie’s as well. I scanned the street, looking for him.

Charlie was on his way over to me, running right through Widow Herbert’s form. I hated when stuff like that happened. It made my friendly ghost who stopped by to chat occasionally feel a little creepy.

“Can I ride on a motorcycle? I don’t want to go in an ATV.” Charlie was staring up at me with hazel eyes that matched my own. They were bigger than ever as he prepared to plead his case, as if this were the most pressing matter in the world. “It’s almost my birthday. I’m big enough.”

His idea of “big enough” severely contrasted with mine. He’d be six next week, and I wanted him to see his birthday.

“You’re going in an ATV with Buddie,” I said in a very no-nonsense tone. I was starting to sound like a parent, and I wasn’t sure when that had happened.

“But you’re going on a bike,” he said, as if that proved how cruel I was being.

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