Lost library collected s.., p.1
Lost Library Collected Short Stories, page 1
Lost Library Collected Short Stories
Kate Baray
Contents
Logan & Clara
I. Rage
About Rage
Rage
II. Forgiveness
About Forgiveness
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
III. Love
About Love
Logan
Clara
Logan
Clara
Logan
Clara & Logan
IV. Moving
About Moving
Moving
Revealed: Max
About Revealed
Revealed
Krampus Gone Wild
About Krampus Gone Wild
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The Covered Mirror
About The Covered Mirror
The Covered Mirror
Excerpt: Spirelli Paranormal Investigations
Also by Kate Baray
About the Author
Logan & Clara
Part I
Rage
About Rage
Logan Braxton faces impossible odds as he attempts a coup against the powerful Alpha of the Texas Pack—his brother Richard.
Ruled by terror and violence, the Pack is crumbling and none are powerful enough to challenge the Alpha. Logan will risk his life, his honor, and his place in Lycan society to save those dearest to him.
Rage
Smithville, Texas, 1979
Logan couldn’t remember the exact moment he’d begun plotting his brother’s murder. A decision so large, so wrong, should have been a pivotal moment in his life. Or at least memorable. But the thought had quietly appeared in his mind, leaving only the details to improve and polish. He’d never questioned the decision. The Alpha of the Texas Pack—his brother Richard—unquestionably had to die.
His four-year-old nephew stood in front of him with tears running down his face and his arm hanging at an odd angle by his side. Logan’s rage was so great it washed over him, blurring his vision and slowing his mind. He couldn’t think when he was this angry. He took a breath and calmed his speeding pulse. As his vision cleared, he clung to the thoughts: maintain control, be smart. He knelt down on one knee and placed a reassuring, gentle hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
He looked the boy square in the eye and said, “This is going to hurt.”
When he got a subdued nod in response, his rage faded into despair. For the tiny boy in front of him. For the boy’s mother, dead under suspicious circumstances. For Clara, his best friend and lover, missing more than a week. And finally, for himself, unlikely to survive another year in the Pack.
Richard must have left the house after he’d hurt his son. Probably to spend at least part of the night with one of his women. If Richard were still home, John would never have sought out his Uncle Logan. God, how he wished he could leave this house—but then John would be all alone with his father. Logan took a slow breath. Maintain control. Be smart.
He carefully examined his nephew’s right upper arm and heard the harsh grating of bone on bone, his Lycan hearing picking up the subtle sound. He’d have to risk a visit to the ER. The boy was much too young to change into his wolf form, and any damage he suffered now would be carried for life. Clearly Richard was unhinged. No sane Lycan would harm his own child before adolescence—before a Lycan developed the ability to change forms and heal injuries. After the change was different. Learning to fight, family disagreements—there were accidents.
He gave the boy a hard look. “You fell. You were riding your bike, and you fell.”
When John didn’t immediately respond, Logan half growled, “Listen.” When he had his nephew’s full attention, he repeated, “You were riding your bike, and you fell.”
John’s tears had subsided to a trickle. Probably because he was exhausted. Certainly not because the pain had receded. He nodded solemnly, bright blue eyes wide, and repeated, “I was riding my bike and I fell.”
Once they were loaded up in Logan’s old pickup truck and on the way to the hospital, Logan said, staring straight ahead at the road, “You’re my son.”
When the boy didn’t answer, Logan turned to make sure he understood, and the hope he saw on John’s face made him swallow hard and fight back tears he knew he should never shed.
“You understand? For the visit, you’re my son. So the doctor can see you.”
“Yes,” John said, his voice quiet but firm. “I understand.”
When they arrived at the ER two towns over, Logan parked and sat in the truck thinking hard. He was only nineteen; he wasn’t the boy’s father. If they asked too many questions, or if they called the cops right away…. Fuck. He’d call the cops on someone walking in with a little boy who looked as ragged and subdued as John.
“It’s okay. I don’t have to see a doctor.” John spoke in a serious and calm tone. He looked more grown-up in that moment than any boy should ever look. His tears had dried, but his lashes were spikey and his face was white. “I know you’re worried. I know the cops and the Alpha might get mad.”
Logan stared at him—this small boy, his beloved nephew.
Logan shook his head. “No. I’m just thinking.” He leaned across John’s lap and shoved the heavy door open. “Let’s go.”
Four hours and some fast-talking later, Logan left the hospital with John. The boy had a bright white cast covering his shoulder, upper arm, and just past his elbow. Settling him into his beater truck, Logan couldn’t help but think the cast made him look even smaller and younger. Black smudges under his eyes contrasted with the white pallor of John’s skin, making him look frail. Logan pushed away John’s fumbling fingers, latched the seat belt himself, and then slammed the door shut. As he slowly walked around to the driver’s door, his mind raced. John couldn’t go home looking like that—broken and fragile. Richard despised weakness, and he would never tolerate it in his own son. It wouldn’t matter that he’d injured his son himself.
He started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. He could feel his pulse leaping in his throat. Richard had hurt his only son, and then he’d left him alone with a broken arm. Logan squeezed the steering wheel, twisting and ringing his hands around the worn plastic like it was Richard’s neck. Maintain control. Be smart.
It was several minutes before he could speak in a reasonably calm tone. “I’m taking you to a friend’s house for the night.”
When the boy didn’t respond, Logan’s gaze darted to the right and back to the road. Exhaustion had claimed John, and he’d fallen asleep in a heap against the door. Logan wracked his brain for a safe place to stash John for the night. Because tonight was the night.
Again his hands tightened on the wheel, but this time in regret for what he had to do. He could still remember a time when Richard hadn’t been as he was now. There had even been flashes of kindness when Logan was a young boy. But with adolescence came the change, and Richard was simply never the same. He’d learned to enjoy others’ pain. He’d grown larger and used his strength to bully and intimidate. Then those moments of kindness ceased to exist. John didn’t know why. The change doesn’t alter a Lycan’s core self. But it seemed to have changed Richard.
He blew out a frustrated breath. It didn’t matter what had made Richard the man he’d become. It didn’t matter that Richard was his brother. Logan’s eyes blinked rapidly at the bright lights of an oncoming car. He ground his teeth together. It did matter—Richard was still his brother. Maintain control. Be smart.
Logan needed to focus on the plan for tonight. He needed someone he could trust—someone who would at least try to escape with John if Logan failed. He’d worked on the plan extensively, but he had no escape for John mapped out. Escape meant relying on another Lycan, trusting another Lycan. He hadn’t planned to move so soon, and the very last component—a safety net for his nephew—wasn’t yet in place. Circumstances had pushed his timetable up. Sweat beaded on his face. Now was the right time. As soon as he’d loaded John into his truck, he’d sent himself down this irrevocable path. He cranked the air conditioning higher.
The events of the last month had made it clear he needed to act soon. The murder of John’s mother, incomprehensible in itself since Richard should want above all else to protect his mate. Clara—his beloved Clara—vanishing into the night, surely dead. But it was John’s need for medical care and the trip to the hospital that would trigger retribution. For Richard, it was a simple: John was property, and any interference with his property was a challenge to his authority.
Dammit. Who would help him? A name came to him suddenly: Albert Simms. He feared Richard—as all in the Pack did—but Logan was convinced that Albert still remembered the time before Richard’s reign as Alpha. So many of the Pack had forgotten. Loss of hope had stolen their memories. Logan accelerated, rushing away from Smithville, away from Richard, and towards Albert’s tiny house on the outskirts of Winchester. Albert remembered; he was sure of it. But Logan would still have a hell of a time convincing him to help.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled onto a rutted gravel drive. He slowed the truck to a crawl and dodged the largest of the holes, hoping to let J
Logan needn’t have bothered worrying about how he would persuade Albert. He took one look at the bright white cast covering the boy’s arm, pursed his lips, and said, “How can I help?”
Surprised, Logan paused. How could he have forgotten? Albert was distantly related to John’s mother—a second cousin? Her death must have sparked equal parts grief and outrage. And from the look in Albert’s eye, John’s sleeping form had spoken more persuasively than Logan might have.
“Keep him here. If I don’t call by—” Logan gave that some thought, shifting John gently in his arms. In that moment, his nephew’s slight form was a heavy burden. He’d never felt the responsibility for another soul so keenly. “If I don’t call by eight o’clock—run.” He knew exactly how much he was asking Albert to risk.
Albert stood aside and held the door open.
Thank God.
John woke as Logan placed him on the old, worn sofa in the middle of the room. Panic lit his eyes as he looked around in confusion.
“You’re safe.” Logan knew the boy couldn’t smell his lies—not yet. “You’re gonna stay with Albert this morning.”
Immediately, John’s head started jerking back and forth in a frantic denial. “I have to go home.” His eyes were giant with fear. Then he looked at his cast and his face crumpled, silent tears flowing again. He knew he couldn’t go home. Couldn’t explain that his uncle had driven him to the hospital. That strangers—humans—had seen to his arm. That he’d been weak and asked for help.
Logan could smell simmering anger, could taste the burnt coffee flavor of it in the back of his throat. He glanced at Albert, the source of the ragged emotion. Albert turned away and walked to the small kitchen cubby, probably to give him some semblance of privacy with John.
Logan closed his eyes, steeling himself. When he opened them, his face was hard. He grasped the boy firmly by the shoulders. He grasped hard enough that he could feel the frailness of his collarbones under his thumbs. He gave him one quick, almost painful squeeze. “You stay here. You understand?” At the boy’s trembling nod, he continued, fingers still harshly gripping. “And you do exactly what Albert says. No matter what.”
When John didn’t immediately agree, he repeated more firmly, “Whatever he says, you do it.” This was the most important part. If Albert and John ran, it would be vital.
Great big blue eyes stared back at him. “Don’t leave me.”
Logan grabbed his chin and looked hard in the little boy’s eyes. “You have to do as Albert says.”
John let out a shuddering breath, holding back a sob. “Okay,” he spoke reluctantly, his voice catching slightly.
As soon as the boy agreed, Logan pulled his small form close and hugged him tight against his chest. He didn’t want to let go any more than John did. Pushing the small, clinging arms away, he said, “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
And he was grateful his nephew couldn’t yet smell the lie he was sure he told.
As he drove to his designated perch—the place he’d appointed as having the highest probability of hiding him, providing him a good vantage point, and not carrying his scent to the target—his nerves started to fray. Maintain control. Be smart.
He focused on the plan as the pavement under his tires flew by. A sniper attack was the only option with any possibility of success. Richard had twelve years of fighting experience on him. The Alpha was physically stronger, faster, and more strategically adept than not only Logan, but every other Pack member. Logan had no chance of success against him in fair combat. Although Logan was the Pack’s most skilled fighter next to Richard, the gap between the two men was vast. And that was another factor that had pushed him to develop the plan. Richard would never tolerate that gap closing.
Logan arrived at his parking spot, a few miles from his perch. He didn’t dare risk the sound of the truck warning Richard of his presence. Surprise was essential for his success. He reached under the seat for his rifle. He laughed without any humor. That had been the first glitch in his plan. Lycan didn’t use guns, but he’d been surprised to find himself so opposed to the most rational solution available. But he’d discovered that he was no different than other Lycan and had an ingrained aversion to using anything other than his strength, his fangs, and his claws. It wasn’t natural, nor was it honorable. He’d thought the circumstances, the Pack’s need, would make those considerations trivial. But he hadn’t been able to stifle his instinctive revulsion, even in the face of Richard’s crimes. Eventually, rage had rescued him. Rage for John’s mother, for Clara, and finally for his helpless nephew. Rage had pushed him past his aversion. And if he lost his honor, or even a piece of his soul, he would live with it.
With his angry strides eating up the ground, it didn’t take long before he arrived at his perch. He looked down on a view that made his gut twist. His home. Richard’s home. Many years ago, a place they’d shared with loving parents. They’d both grown up in that house as boys, but some twist of fate had made Richard an evil caricature of the good man his parents had tried to raise. Not for the first time, Logan was glad they hadn’t survived to see Richard become a person they’d both hate.
He hunkered down prone on his stomach, ready to wait—hours if necessary. After removing the rifle from its case, Logan rested it on its bipod. As he handled the gun, he reminded himself that it was nothing more than a tool. He was still surprised at how simple it had been to acquire the rifle. Finding time to sneak away and practice had been much more difficult. Richard kept an eye on his movements and actions. But after the first escape, he became increasingly clever. He’d had no choice; the plan hinged on his proficiency with the rifle. First, he needed to develop a fluidity of motion, an ease and speed that came only with significant practice. He could not falter. He’d have very little time to make the shot. His scent, any movement, even the sound of the gun firing could warn his target. And if Richard were warned, Logan would miss. And second, he needed to be accurate at a good distance. It had to be a head shot. For an amateur like him, it was an incredibly difficult shot. But only by stopping Richard’s ability to process events—to process the fact of an injury—could he stop Richard from changing and healing himself before death claimed him.
As the sky lightened, he focused on his breathing. He’d learned about the mechanics of firing a sniper rifle, how his breathing and heart rate had to be controlled. How the temperature and wind played an important part in calculating the shot. Humidity was high today and the lack of breeze made the air hang heavily. Perfect. His scent would catch and cling to the damp grass and vegetation around him—but it wouldn’t travel. He picked out the various wind markers he’d identified between his perch and his subject. Not even a puff of air—near him, at the midway point to his target, or at the two-thirds mark. Maintain control. Be smart. He settled deeper into the tall grass cover, slowed his pulse, evened his breathing, and waited.
