Page 1 of Forsaken by Shadow (Mirus 1)

Chapter 1

He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the scream. Though his body all but vibrated with the need for action, some inner instinct counseled him to remain still. Listening.

A roll of thunder, then a muffled crash from another room.

Rage pumped through him, hot and bright as a blast furnace. He had to fight. He had to get to… Had to protect… her.

A hard thud shook the wall. A whimper, then a deeper grunt.

His ears strained to pick out other sounds, anything to determine how many he needed to fight.

Faint voices through the wall, and then a rhythmic thumping. Not quite like the steady thud of fists on flesh.

Another scream ripped the air, this one more coherent. “Oh, yes! Yes! Vinny! Yes!”

He stilled. Not her.

Then where was she? Where was… He tried to latch on to a name, but the memory skittered away. Rage dimmed fractionally with panic.

Why couldn’t he remember her name?

He tried to call up her face. But like her name, it simply wouldn’t form in his mind, trickling from his thoughts like sand through loose fingers.

A few moments later, he heard a man, presumably Vinny, bellow release. Then everything lapsed back into relative silence.

The sharp scent of whiskey burned his nose, mixing with the pungent odor of stale sweat. The smell permeated the coarse fabric his face was crushed against. His mouth was cotton-dry, coated with a sour film that he tasted with each inhalation.

He tested his limbs, and with motion came pain. Hissing at the sear of agony that shot up from his hands when he flexed them, he stilled again, waiting for the burn to level off enough that he could draw full breath again. He rolled over to a chorus of creaky bed springs and opened his eyes. Lightning flashed beyond the threadbare curtains at the single window. In its brief glare, he saw a low dresser, a desk, and an overturned chair. He counted absently.

One one thousand… two one thousand… three one thousand…

A low grumble of thunder. Another flash. A glimpse of a television mounted on the wall, an empty luggage rack below.

He reached for the bedside lamp, gritting his teeth as he flicked it on. With a sense of dread, he squinted in the light of the single, pitiful bulb to see what the hell was wrong with his hands.

They were wrapped in gauze. Lots of it. With fumbling fingers, he unwound the bandages. Both palms were blistered with ugly burns. Even in the dim light, he could see that the skin was charred, curling, and covered in some kind of salve.

What the fuck?

He rolled to his feet, moving quickly through the room. In the bathroom he flipped on the light, another anemic fluorescent bulb that flickered several times before illuminating the cracked tile and outdated fixtures. The burns looked even worse in here. What the hell had happened to him?

He glanced into the spotted mirror. Blinked. Then he leaned in close.

The face looking back at him was young, early twenties, shadowed by a few days of scruff. Beneath the scruff, an ugly bruise darkened the left side of his jaw. Dark, somewhat matted hair hung to his shoulders.

A new kind of fear slid greasily through his system.

Who am I?

He sucked in air, taking another look around. There were no toiletries save the pitiful bar of soap and tiny, cheap shampoo and lotion beside the gray plastic ice bucket. He went back into the room for the gauze, sinking onto the bed to rewrap his mangled hands.

Panic was a decent analgesic.

He knew nothing. Not his name. Not his birthday. Not where he was or where he was from. Not how he’d gotten here. Every single shred of information related to his identity was an absolute blank. By the time he finished re-bandaging, unanswered questions jostled in his brain like restless cattle. The sheer number of them terrified him.

There have to be answers here somewhere, he thought, getting up to search more thoroughly.

The room had looked better in the dark. Fading wallpaper in a pattern popular in some decade well before he’d been born hung from the walls in peeling strips. The few pieces of furniture were scarred, cheap wood veneer. The TV above the luggage stand had knobs. A nearly empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s lay on its side on the bedside table. A small puddle stained the already splotchy shag carpet below.

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