Watcher: Book I of The Chosen Read online

  All my senses are on high alert as I park and walk to my apartment. No foreign scents linger about my door. I ease it open, listening, and taste the air.

  Seems clean.

  I relax somewhat, step in and lock the door, then glance around at my little home.

  Damn it. I don’t want to pack again.

  Six months. I made it six months this time, the longest yet. My coworkers are comfortable around me now and seem to actually like me. Even better, I like them. Yet that makes little difference. It’s the same thing over and over. Every time I think I’m settled, something happens, threatening to expose me for what I am, and I have to move on.

  But what I need right now is a hot shower. I strip and dump my bloody clothes into the washing machine with enzyme cleaner.

  Steaming water pours over me while I mull over the things that need to be done in case I have to leave. I won’t have time to do any of it tonight, though. The sun will be up soon. Hopefully my precautions and my various IDs will keep me safe until tomorrow.

  I lean my face into the spray and try to wash away my prickling anxiety, hoping tonight wasn’t as bad as I remember. Guess I’ll find out if the cops start snooping around the club.

  The outer warmth of the hot water and the inner warmth of the stag’s blood help me unwind and I stay in as long as I dare. Feeling more in control, I turn off the faucet, towel myself dry, and get out.

  The reflection approaching the mirrored closet door grabs my attention and I stop a few feet from the glass to examine it.

  Mirrors never cease to amaze me. The woman looking back at me is . . . not me. Not the me I once was. She looks like me, yet she’s different, scary. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to her.

  Always tall, she’s now lean and well-muscled instead of willowy and soft. Her curves are still the right fullness and in the right places, but this body is the wiry one of a huntress. The perpetual tan her skin once wore has given way to a pale translucence, like the color of skim milk. Childhood scars and blemishes have vanished. Her thick hair is about the only thing that’s the same and is still a dark, rich brown, almost black, as it waves gently past her shoulders.

  The teeth, surprisingly, haven’t changed either. But the jaw is much stronger now.

  It’s the other changes in her face that are the most disturbing. Though in her early thirties, she seems ageless now, with no lines of worry, nor those of laughter. The soft roundness of her cheeks and easy-going expression are gone, replaced by sharp angles and a predator’s intensity that intimidates even me.

  And the eyes . . . the eyes are no longer mine. When the hunger is sated, as now, they are an impossibly brilliant pale blue. I get a bit lost in them, as do most people upon meeting me.

  As the hunger grows, they gradually darken and lose a little of their brilliance, becoming a more somber, deeper blue, like the ocean. Then people tend to drown in them, unwilling to try to swim to the surface. I guess that’s what these eyes are for—to entrap my prey with nothing more than a stare. Just like any good predator.

  And there’s another color that they possess, but it’s not a pleasant one. It starts within the pupil, then expands out into the iris. The assholes from this evening got a good look at it because they only turn this color when I’m angry or hunting—or both. It’s the color of violence, of mortality, and my victims can’t help but note the striking resemblance between my eyes . . . and their blood.

  Grabbing the furry black teddy bear from the pile of stuffed animals on my bed, I climb in between the flannel sheets. The soft bed, warmed by an electric blanket, feels wonderful as I curl up around the bear and snuggle beneath the covers. The sun’s coming up and it’s forcing me into a dreamless state like it does every morning. I relax and willingly give myself over to the inner darkness.

  But as it swallows me down, I see a shadowy image in the blackness of my mind—a tall, pale figure standing in the distance. He’s strange, unearthly.

  And he . . . he’s watching me.

  MONDAY

  CHAPTER 3

  I wake, instantly alert, and glance at the clock—1:08 PM, a little late for me. But I feel refreshed and last night’s problem seems far away for the moment. Climbing out of bed, I pull on jeans and a long-sleeved top. My plan had been to check out new hunting areas online, but I’m not in the mood to sit at my desk. It’s supposed to be cloudy today, so I should be able to run errands without worrying about the sun.

  That’s another interesting change I’ve undergone. I used to tan easily and spent hours on the beach drinking in the warmth of the sun. Now I’m so fair that I burn instantly. Any direct ray turns my bare skin bright pink and I fear I’m about to burst into flames. I haven’t yet, and the burn fades once I’m out of the sun, but it does make me a bit nervous.

  I fix a cup of hot tea, grateful to have something from my old life that I can still enjoy. Food is another story—apparently my digestive system is designed only for liquids. Well, one liquid specifically, but my stomach can handle others in small quantities. It’s kind of helpful for keeping up human appearances.

  My cell phone rings, startling me.

  Lenny’s number. Tentacles of anxiety writhe up my spine.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Sunny. How’re you doin’ today?” Lenny’s voice lacks its usual gaiety.

  “Okay. What’s up?” I try to sound nonchalant.

  “Well, I just got a call from Karen at the club. The police came in asking for you.”

  The police.

  Fear explodes throughout my body and both the beast and the hunter go berserk. I stare at the wall through a red haze and fight to keep from running out the door.

  My last encounter with police almost ended with me in a cage. I barely escaped.

  “Sunny? Are you still there?”

  Lenny’s voice is a lifeline to sanity.

  “Yeah, Lenny. I . . . I’m still here.”

  “They wouldn’t tell her why, other than they wanted to ask you some questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you? Okay, I mean? You sound funny. Are you in some kinda trouble? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Yeah, sweet Lenny, just keep talking while I try to regain some control.

  “No, no, everything’s fine.”

  “Well, okay. I just thought I’d let you know.” The concern in his voice is endearing and it saddens me that I have to leave without saying goodbye.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. They left a number for you to call. Do you want it?”

  “Sure.” I don’t bother writing it down as he rattles it off.

  “Well, let me know if you need anything. See ya tonight?” Doubt colors his voice.

  “Uh, yeah. I’ll be there.”

  “All right then. Later.”

  “Yeah. And Lenny? Thanks again.”

  “No problem.”

  The phone goes silent and I take a deep breath. Over my initial shock, I quiet the beast and use the hunter’s focus to begin working on my list of things to do.

  I’m not worried about the cops showing up here, at least for a little while. The club has a PO box for my address and the apartment is rented under a different name. My driver’s license and registration are under yet another name. It’ll take some time to connect the dots, if they bother to do so with a minor assault case. Either way, I’ll be long gone by then.

  It’s tempting to stay and tough it out. I don’t want to leave my job, or Lenny and Sally—but I don’t dare talk to the police, let alone walk into a police station. There’s no way I can keep the beast from panicking over the idea of being locked up, regardless of how remote the possibility or how innocent I might be. And when the beast panics, things usually get very bloody.

  Crap. I head into the bedroom to start packing.

  Suitcases by the door, I retrieve one last item secured under the carpet and floorboards beneath my bed. The small travel bag is one of several emergency kits I
’ve stashed up and down the West Coast and contains enough cash and identifications to start over somewhere else.

  Glancing around the apartment, I shake my head at the things I’m leaving behind. They’re just books and stupid little knick-knacks that won’t fit into my over-packed car. But they made this place feel . . . like home.

  The apartment lease and the rental furniture are paid up through next month. I shove letters terminating both agreements into my bag to mail on my way out.

  I take one last look around and, biting my lip, grab the suitcases and head to the car.

  CHAPTER 4

  The BMW hums as I leave Santa Cruz and head south to Santa Barbara. The anxiety I’ve felt since Lenny’s phone call is fading, replaced with an emptiness inside that bleeds out into everything around me. The asphalt disappearing beneath the hood, the dull grey of streetlights and railing, the palette of painted steel machines that I pass—all of it blurs into nothingness.

  My chest tightens as I think about the life I just left behind. It was the closest I’ve felt to fitting in, to belonging. Lenny and the others accepted me and my moodiness, along with my need to stay apart from them. I didn’t talk much, but they didn’t pry and were always just there, laughing and kidding around. Watching them as we worked together made me feel not so alone—which is as close to friendship as I’m capable of now.

  When I first returned to civilization three years ago, I wasn’t sure I could make it living among people. But after several years of near-mindless life in the wild, I could no longer bear the isolation. And as memories of my daughter, Andrea, began to resurface and dominate all other thoughts, including those of blood, I started finding myself again. And I knew I had to try.

  It was tougher in the beginning, when the hunger was more demanding and I had almost no control over the explosive beast. In those days, I was lucky to last a week in the same place.

  But Andrea saved me. Memories of her gave me the self-control necessary to live among people and resist the urge to kill them. There were some close calls at first, but like a guardian angel, Andrea’s face would break through the red haze and freeze me in my tracks. She gave me the strength to stop the beast, because I was—I still am—unable to do to someone else what had been done to me. Unwilling to rip them from their family and leave their loved ones with a gaping hole.

  A chill runs through me and I shrink from the blurred images of that horrific nightmare and the one who took me.

  Forcing my thoughts away from the dark place that threatens to swallow my soul whenever I think about that night, I focus on the California landscape framing Highway 101, its rolling green hills sprinkled with majestic oaks and vineyards. I lower the windows and breathe in the scents of spring grasses and trees and those who live among them. March wildflowers remind me of Andrea and the flowers she leaves on my grave.

  Andrea. I was only seventeen when she was born, and she was my whole life until it ended.

  It took a long time to find her after I came in from the wild. I searched for months, surviving one day at a time, fighting the frustration and doubt that I would ever see her again.

  I’ll never forget the day I saw her name online in an article about the Santa Barbara City College soccer team. I sat frozen, my eyes locked to her picture in the midst of her teammates, terrified that if I looked away, she would vanish.

  I didn’t go to work that night. I didn’t hunt. I didn’t leave my chair. The only thing that moved was my hand on the mouse every so often to keep the screensaver from activating.

  The first time I actually saw her was on campus. Padding filled my baggy shirt and pants. I still have the red wig I wore. A cap and sunglasses protected my face from the sun—and from her eyes. I followed her throughout the day, watching her in her new life. Day after day I watched her, always disguised, sometimes as faculty, sometimes as a boy.

  It wasn’t long before I noticed her looking over her shoulder, peering in my direction. I’d quickly turn away from those questioning blue eyes and step behind a corner or melt into the surrounding students—all the while fighting the impulse to run to her and take her in my arms and tell her I loved her.

  The heartache of watching without being a part of her life began to take its toll. That, and the fear she’d finally recognize me, gave me the strength to back off. She looked happy and seemed to be doing well, and that was all that really mattered. Reluctantly I moved north, putting distance and hours between us to help me resist the temptation to watch her just one more day, one more minute.

  But every few weeks, I’d slip down the highway, anxious and hoping that she was still okay, still where I left her.

  Until Andrea disappeared over summer break.

  My days became frantic with searching. My nights in the oak-covered hills northeast of Santa Barbara became . . . bloody. Those were the longest nine weeks of my life, waiting for fall semester, hoping that she re-enrolled.

  When I finally saw her on the soccer field, relief nearly dropped me to my knees. Watching her go to classes throughout the day, I realized that her life had changed again. Because now there was a boy, a sweet blond boy who looked at her as adoringly as she did him.

  And so I’ve watched. I watched as they fell in love, watched as they married. And I watched as together they waited for their new baby.

  But that is all I can do. Watch.

  Because I would rather she believe me dead than know what I really am.

  A toddler’s face, cushioned by the bright blue padding of a car seat, flickers in and out of my vision as I pass a white SUV. I press the accelerator and scream south down the 101.

  My granddaughter. She’s almost seven months old now. I wonder if she’s crawling yet. Another stage I’ll miss. It’s not like I can peek in their window to watch her scoot across the carpet. Hopefully I’ll get to see her if Andrea takes her out. I’ll just have to park down the street and watch for her to get in the car. Maybe she’ll take her to the beach to see the waves roll in and seagulls fly by, screeching in their seagull language.

  I don’t even know what she looks like. All I’ve ever seen is a bundle of pink blankets.

  My throat tightens. Crying doesn’t do any good. Ever since I changed, I’ve been unable to shed tears. I don’t know why. Maybe it has something to do with my ever-shifting eye color, or the increase in visual sharpness. Or maybe it’s because I am what I am. I just know that I can’t cry like I used to. All I get are sick gasping sounds pretending to be sobs and my eyes feeling like they’re going to burst from the pressure, and this misery bottled up inside with no way to let it out.

  Except to run something down, rip out its throat, and drain away every drop of its life.

  The motel bed isn’t nearly as comfortable as the one at my old apartment, but in a few moments it won’t matter. At least I’m warm and comfy on the inside. Though I hunted last night, negative feelings always fuel the hunger, so the beast was in quite a state by the time I checked into the motel on the outskirts of Santa Barbara.

  Lucky for the desk clerk I maintain such a strict diet.

  Lucky for me the hills north of Santa Barbara are full of deer.

  I clutch the teddy bear to my chest as the lassitude of the stag’s blood and the rising sun start to take me down. As I fade, I sense something, or someone. I struggle to open my eyes, but realize he’s in my head, yet far away. Tall, powerful. Familiar, but I don’t know why. The last thing I see as I slip into the blackness is a pair of emerald eyes, watching me.

  TUESDAY

  CHAPTER 5

  It’s 11:16 a.m. Crap. I spring out of bed and quickly get dressed. I wish I could set an alarm to wake me up. But they don’t make an alarm loud enough to wake the dead.

  Sure enough, her driveway’s empty as I cruise by. Great.

  I don’t know if she’s already left or if her car is still in the garage. I hate trying to figure out her schedule so that I can catch more than just a glimpse. It was a lot easier when she was in school and I coul
d pretend to be a student.

  Parking down the street, I yank a magazine from the stack I bought at the bookstore yesterday, but can’t make myself open it. I sit staring at the house, trying to regain some measure of calm.

  I’m still staring when the garage door opens and her car backs out. When she’s nearly at the stop sign, I pull out and follow her, noting the time—12:24.

  After getting off the freeway, Andrea drives into a residential area. The short streets make it difficult to keep her in sight without getting too close. She pulls over in front of a tan house and I drive past, turning onto the next street. I make a U-turn and park so I can see her car across the postage-stamp lawns.

  She gets out and opens the rear door. Andrea appears to have slimmed down more since I last saw her, but it’s difficult to tell underneath her red wool coat. Her face is somewhat hidden beneath the slightly cocked brim of her matching hat. She leans into the car and comes back up holding my granddaughter.

  But I can’t see the baby’s face. Not because of the distance, which is no problem for my hunter’s eyes, but because she’s wearing a puffy pink jacket with an oversized hood drawn around her face. A pale yellow blanket is sandwiched between the baby’s waist and my daughter’s arm. A pink shoe kicks back and forth as my daughter bends again to retrieve a yellow diaper bag.

  She walks to the front door, knocks, and disappears inside.

  That’s it. That’s all I’ll get to see of my granddaughter today. I’m sure this evening will only be a repeat performance, pink jacket and all. I won’t get to see her hair, or the color of her eyes, or whether she resembles her father or her mother.

  I don’t even know her name.

  I glare at the dark grey sky that is threatening rain. Usually I welcome these low-hanging storm clouds, heavy with their burden of water, because it means I don’t have to worry about being fried by the sun.