Lurking in the Dark

Chapter One

Emre Shore

           I looked down at the streets from the building ledge I was perched on.  The cool September air ruffled my feathers, sending a chill down my spine.  It was well after midnight and yet the streets were congested with people.  I shivered a little, trying to settle my feathers against the night air.  A deep feeling of restlessness had settled in the pit of my stomach over the last couple of weeks.  It'd been almost six months since my Director for the Department of Magic and Supernatural had ordered me on medical leave and I was beginning to itch with anticipation.  I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.  I had healed nicely over the past months, aside from the teeth-shaped scar that now adorned my left collarbone.

         As though it had a mind of its own, the scar began to itch and burn, bringing with it the memories and nightmares of how it came to be in the first place.  I shivered again, only not because of the cold.  I cursed myself, Damnit. He's dead.  I shook my head, pushing the memories into the back of my mind.  I spread my wings and leapt into the air.  I caught an updraft, riding it higher into the sky.  I headed west, careful as to not attract unwanted attention.  Humans and non-humans had been living in peace for hundreds of years, but prejudices still ran on both sides.  Twenty minutes later, the hustle of downtown had faded and the quite streets of residential neighborhoods came into view.  I flew for a couple more minutes before landing on the back patio of the house I was staying at.  The yard was dark and quiet. Satisfied that no one was around, I reached for the magic.  It started as a warm ball in my stomach.  I allowed the ball to grow, before spreading it to the rest of my body.  In no time, a human stood where a hawk once did.  The cool air caressed my naked skin, forming goosebumps.  Changing forms always damaged clothing, leaving them torn and ragged.  I grabbed the clothes I'd laid out before my flight, pulling them on.

         Dressed, I grabbed the keys out of the sweatpants’ pocket, unlocked the patio door, and slipped inside, locking the door behind me.  I walked into the kitchen, dropping my keys on the island counter.  My phone beeped, indicating a text message.  The message was from my younger sister, Maryanne.  A smile tugged at my lips.  Being on leave for so long, had allowed me to come home, which had included some much-needed family time.  As werewolves, we were very close nit and I hadn't realized how much I'd missed out on until now.  I sent Maryanne a text, confirming breakfast with her and our mother.  Putting the phone down, I glanced at the clock on the stove.  1:30 am.  A yawn escaped and I stretched, flying always wore me out.  Grabbing the phone, I walked through the living room, down the hall, and into the back bedroom.  I put the phone on the nightstand and crawled under the covers.  It wasn't long before I fell into the blackness of sleep.

         Sweat rolled down my face, getting into my eyes. My head pounded as though my brain was trying to push its way out of my skull. I ignored the pain, yet again testing the handcuffs that held my wrist to a metal pipe. The cuffs were made of silver, a strong metal, but poison to a were/shifter like me. I hissed as the metal dug into and burned my skin. I'd woken in this room nearly a hour ago. My last memory of having saved a would-be victim of the Butcher. A werewolf who had the taste for human flesh and torture. I'd been tracking him for months and it seemed I'd finally found him. I shoved the memory away, again trying the cuffs. Blood oozed, but I could feel the pipe loosening, just one more good tug. I froze at the sound of metal on stone. The room was filled with outside light, blinding me. The darkened figure of a man loomed in the doorway. My eyes locked onto the case he carried.  My skin itched and burned, silver. I froze as he closed the door. The click of his boots against the metal echoed as he walked to a table that sat in the middle of the room. Next to that table was another, adorned with straps, no doubt also lined with silver.  The Butcher sat his case on the first table, opening it. My stomach dropped as he pulled a syringe out. Without warning he was on me. Hand around my throat, he plunged the needle into my skin, and then there was nothing but blackness.