Page 1 of Lycan King's Captives
1
The ice cold air has me rubbing my arms as I walk home from the club. Snow settles on the ground, and it gives the illusion that there is beauty in this city. That is a far cry from the truth. Creatures that used to live only in horror movies and storybooks choose this time to come out and play, hunting their unsuspecting prey for fun. This city is not safe at night and is ruled by Lycan King Rehan. Humans like me are mere pawns to him. Despite this, I am apprehensive about Prince Xandros’s succession, considering the whispers of his depravity. God only knows what new hellscape we’ll be in once he takes over from his father.
My house is on a derelict street that runs along the forest which borders the city. The only street light that works is by the burned-out house next door, its faint orange light flickering in the darkness. As I survey my surroundings, goosebumps rise on my arms, and my neck prickles with the feeling of being watched. I pick up my pace, trying to slow my heavy breathing, which is making smoke clouds in the icy, chilled air.
I never used to do late shifts, always ensuring I was home before dark. With my uncle’s debt hanging over my head and the threat that comes with it, I’ve been pulling extra shifts. Finally, it has paid off. I hope he hasn’t skipped on another bill for me to cover. When the house appears, a slow dread comes over me at the prospect of entering the decaying weatherboard house. The paint is peeling, the windows have splintering cracks, and some are even boarded over to stop the cold air from getting inside. This place has more cracks, creases, and wrinkles than Mrs. Morris’s face, and that old witch is past a hundred.
Approaching the porch, my boots crunch on each step, the holes in the bottom of my boots filling with ice-cold snow, making my teeth chatter. Carefully, I dig my keys out, trying to make as little noise as possible, praying my uncle has passed out or, if I’m lucky, has dropped dead so I don’t have to look at his evil face again.
The old door, which is barely held on by the flimsy bent hinges, creaks open, and I curse under my breath before popping my head inside the door. The old box TV is playing with no sound, and I thank whoever’s watching over me that he isn’t awake, knowing he would shake me down for my tips.
Stepping inside, the stench of stale beer and cigarettes lingers in the air. The horrendous odor reaches my nose, and I fight back the urge to cough or gag, maybe both. I hold my breath, hoping not to wake him, and my grip on the old rattling brass handle shakes. I used to sneak in the back door; however, it’s now boarded over from repeatedly being kicked. There is always someone looking for Uncle Sven. He’s a ghastly man, despicable, and, unfortunately, my only family.
Ten days and I can finally leave this place, or so I hope. I’ve been saving for two years to buy my ticket out of here. My ticket is only a fancy way of saying I’ve been saving up to pay the seekers to smuggle me out of the city via the old tunnel system that was used when the war happened. Their escape through the tunnel system inadvertently left them vulnerable when the exits were blocked. They now heavily guard it. No guarantees; still, it’s worth attempting since my future choices include remaining here with my uncle. The king leaving me in my uncle’s care for years is punishment enough. I don’t think I can endure another nineteen years with him.
I spot my uncle passed out drunk as usual, beer bottle dangling precariously from his fingertips as he slouches on the couch. Once, he could have been described as handsome; the years, though, have not been kind to him. His stained white shirt stretches over his massive beer gut. The filter on his smoke creates a ghastly stench as it burns. Hopefully, the bastard sets himself on fire and saves me from having to listen to his incessant whining about how raising me ruined his life. Closing the door, I grit my teeth at the sound of the lock clicking in place.
Every floorboard is written in my head like a blueprint on which were safe and which ones creaked. However, the beer can was not part of the blueprint in my mind as it crunches under my boot. I cringe, glancing at him. He huffs, the cigarette falling from between his lips onto his white-stained shirt.
I try not to laugh as I sneak to the stairs, taking them two at a time, when I hear his frantic slapping and whiny ass voice when it burns through to his flesh. As I reach my bedroom door, the glass coffee table littered with cans rattles. I suck in a breath and step inside, only to stop in my tracks. My room has been upturned, the drawers strewn across the floor, and my clothes scattered everywhere. Even the mattress leans against the window. No!
I blink back tears, daring to look at the corner where my chest of drawers has been knocked over and pulled apart. My stomach sinks, and I race over to it, ripping it out of the way to find the floorboard where I kept the box containing every cent I had now empty. I pull the last five-dollar bill out, which is barely recognizable since he’s burned it.
A deep, menacing chuckle causes me to turn and see my uncle leaning against the door. A beer can in his hand. “Think you can hide money away from me!” he yells.
“That was mine. You had no right to go in my room,”
“No, right? This is my fucking house, you ungrateful brat,”
“That I fucking pay for; I pay the bills, not you. I am the only reason there is ever food in cupboards or the fridge. The power is on because of me!” I scream at him. I had been secretly saving for two years. For two years, I have put every spare bit of cash I’ve had in here. And it’s all gone. That was my ticket out of here, and he stole it.
“Well, I owed Mal. It’s fine. He’ll let you pay the rest off,” he says with a shrug.
“You piece of useless shit!” I yell at him in a fury. He’s pushed me too far this time; that outburst seems to push him when he tosses his beer can and storms into my room. I shriek, jumping to my feet.
His fingers tangle in my hair as he rips me backward. My head bangs loudly off the stained floorboards. I groan, opening my eyes only to see his foot coming toward my face. Quickly I roll, his foot stomping the ground where my head was before I turn, kicking his bad knee. He grunts, dropping to the ground, and I snatch my bag, racing for the door.
His ear-piercing screams yell at me to stop so he can kill me because that will really make me want to go back. My boots thump loudly as I race down the stairs, jumping when I am near the bottom before bursting out the front door, only to stop dead when I remember it is night time.
Now what?
I try to catch my breath, and I can hear him making his way after me, leaving me no other option than to leave the porch and the safety it offers—which is none—therefore, my chances are better inside this house than out of it. But inside is an ass-kicking I don’t want.
Inhaling sharply, I pull my hood up to protect myself from the icy breeze and hope nothing is lurking in the shadows.
Every noise has me jumping as I navigate through the snow-covered city. Abandoned houses and burned-out cars line the sidewalk through this side of town, setting me more on edge whenever I hear a noise. This is a hunting territory for those caught in the streets at night.
At this time of night, most humans ensure they’re indoors, tucked safely in their beds, and here I am, walking the streets, trying to get to Tasha’s place while praying I am not eaten alive, gang raped by werewolves—seeing as those bastards are pack creatures—or left dead on the sidewalk drained of my blood.
Nearing the end of the suburb, the roads begin to clear of rubbish, and streetlights come into view. I glance toward the huge sky-rise buildings where Tasha lives, gulping down the dread, knowing I am going to have to try to pass through the city that comes alive at night with the most sinister monsters. With my head down, I pick up my pace, cutting through the next alleyway and coming out behind the main drag. Noise surrounds me, and I focus on my breathing, needing to keep my heartbeat low to ensure I don’t entice a vamp to feast on me.
Bright lights cover all the shop windows. Billowing smoke pours from the restaurants, and the cloying scent of death fills the air, along with the screams of those inside the darker establishments—the clubs and bars that go from family-friendly during the day to dark and sinister at night, catering to those who prowl and hunt.
Alcohol is potent in the air, along with the odor of old blood, when I almost let out a shriek, nearly stumbling over a man’s body lying in the street. His throat is ripped out, and the bite marks on his neck tell me what happened. A feeder; a human who voluntarily becomes a juice box for the vamps since their bites are addictive. Panic sets in as I draw closer to where I work, knowing it is the most sinister place in the city. It functions as a regular family welcome club and gambling house by day. By night, its character changes significantly. It’s an auction house. And not the sort where you buy antiques. It’s the place that sells lives and skin.
It sometimes makes me wonder how my uncle survives out here among these monsters when he gambles, and how he hasn’t been killed for his so-called bad luck on the tables. It could be his awful odor; maybe they fear he’d be as unpalatable as he smells, and that’s how he’s survived.
Moving closer to the edge of the sidewalk, I try getting around the massive crowd lined up out front, only to be stopped by a hand grabbing hold of my jacket.
