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Chapter 1 - Eric
Shadows billowed in my vision as I reached up for a speck of light. Any light. Something to drag me out of the darkness that threatened to swallow me.
That was how sleep went for me.
It was like this nearly every night. Torturous memories came from the pit of my mind that made me sick to my stomach. Every image that materialized in front of my eyes brought with it a slew of emotions—regret, sorrow, and pain being the most common.
Life was different these days, so much different than my time in the Marines. Yet, the nights proceeded much like they had many, many years ago during a horrible war that made it difficult to sleep. Not just for the nightmares. But for what I’d done during that time. All for my pack, my family, and my friends, of course, yet the lives of those lost were the expense.
Both sides lost lives. We were all just trying to pick up the pieces now.
So much regret lived inside me. Maybe that was why the nightmares continued even long after the vampire-wolf wars ended. If it wasn’t for my daughter, Kiara, I didn’t know if I could keep going through the motions, day in and day out.
Three distinct chirps broke through the fog of my sleep. With a fluttering slowness, my eyelids popped open, allowing me to roll my eyes across the ceiling. Darkness lived here, of course, because it wasn’t yet time for the sun to come up. So, what was making that dreadful noise and disrupting my typical thunderstorm of nightmares?
My phone screen lit up, casting a white hue over the arched ceiling of my room. Dark brown planks sanded to smooth perfection stared back at me. I groaned as I sat up and swept my phone from the nightstand, sighing as I planted my bare feet on the wooden floor. One of the planks creaked. I glared at it like it didn’t do that every morning.
Which, for me, usually wasn’t this damn early.
I squinted at the screen, noticing a text from Alpha Blake. Did that man ever sleep?
There’s a scheduling issue at the barn. Can you come in early?
The clock at the top right hand corner of my phone screen said 4:08 AM.
Yeah, I could come in early. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice. Sleep wouldn’t exactly produce much more rest, and there wasn’t a whole lot for me to do in my house. I locked the phone screen, plunging my vision back into darkness, and then rubbed my eyes liberally. Orbs of light danced behind my lids.
With a sharp breath, I reached blindly for the lamp on the bedside table near my phone and tapped it on. Yellow light bathed the room, a much more appropriate shade rather than the headlight white LED from my phone. Across from me, the dark window reflected my image—a tired man in his early forties with black hair, blue eyes, and a closely cropped beard peppered with strands of gray.
I scraped my fingers through the thick scruff. That was me, Captain Eric Barrett. Retired now.
Everything else in the window’s reflection was standard: a handmade wooden dresser with a large vanity mirror, a series of exquisite paintings done by Kiara of the surrounding landscapes, a few photographs of friends and family, and a closet off to the right tucked into a nook-like corner.
When I rested my hand on the bed, the blue flannel blanket felt soft, welcoming. Trying to make my room a safe haven didn’t do much for my sleep, but at least it felt nice. It was like a farmhouse attic room. That made me feel good, and I did what I could to feel good. Just getting a day’s work under my belt was usually sufficient.
Today would make a double day—which meant double the sufficient feeling.
The sound of a car door cracked through the early morning, dragging my attention back to the window with the sharpness of a sniper using his scope to locate a target. I turned off the bedside lamp and waited for my vision to adjust to the darkness before approaching the window.
My front lawn was illuminated by the porch light. The gentle halo glowed over the lush grass, lightly dewed by October’s autumnal chill. Voices carried through the shadows across the street. A light popped on at my daughter’s house—it looked like she was coming out onto the porch to greet someone.
A woman of average height stepped onto the lamplit stone path leading to the porch. She wore flowing garments in various colorful silks, had lavender curls, and had ink-black skin with what appeared to be golden tattoos. Kiara dashed down the path in shorts and a tank top, rushing to embrace the woman.
They talked in hushed voices, but my Marine training sharpened every single one of my senses. I studied their body language, how they held tightly to each other’s hands and bowed their heads toward each other. They’re close. That means I probably knew the woman, though I didn’t recognize her from this angle. If she would just turn around—
Kiara points to my house. The woman turns, revealing sparkling gray eyes that seem to lock directly on my bedroom window. For a split second, I froze up, trying to blend in with the shadows as I steadied my breathing. Her persistent stare made it feel like she was searching for something.
But then she turned back to Kiara and gestured to the porch. They floated in that direction, taking their time as the lamp lights on the stone path flickered out one by one. Motion-sensor lights were useful around here. I installed that batch myself, adding some to my stone path to tell me whenever I had visitors.
I never had visitors.
Besides my daughter occasionally popping over to steal my pumpernickel, I didn’t keep much company. I went to the barn to work, repaired equipment, tilled the fields when necessary, and then went home. The same seemed to happen at home—I tried to repair myself as best I could. I made furniture. I occupied every single second of my day with something that would keep my focus solid.
Nothing else really worked to keep away the haunting images of my past. I tried therapy once, but that bird shifter was a damn quack. He just kept going on about how I had to make peace with the violence I had committed during a trying time for the supernatural world.
None of us could truly speak about it publicly. It wasn’t like there were news reports or alerts on television. We relied on word of mouth, magical newspapers, and secret meetings to make sure information was correct, and current to that moment. A lot of times, battle reports would end up being null and void by the time they reached the captain’s table—triple the wound and slain was expected at that point.
We were just scraping for strategies.
