Secrets in the Fade (Secrets of the Sequoia Book 2) Read online

  SECRETS IN THE FADE

  Secrets of the Sequoia (Book 2)

  By Deidre Huesmann

  I would like to extend gratitude to my friend, Katie A., who reconnected with me and aided with a lot of the translation. Her family was a major help with translation in particular, and she has been a tireless sounding board when I get frustrated. Her help was, and is, invaluable.

  Also to my stepsons, Alex and William, who have inspired a lot when it comes to Nathan’s character.

  And a dedication to my baby boy, Quinn. I love you.

  Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves

  ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is

  calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming.

  All we can learn to do is swim.

  — Vicki Harrison

  Chapter One

  But for the dead bodies strewn about the dirt, the covered wagon remained completely untouched. The clopping of his mare’s hooves reverberated in the silence as the young man encouraged his horse forward. Nervous whinnies rang in his ears. He could hardly blame her. The air reeked of urine and copper, laden with the whispers of danger.

  The young main waited until they reached the wagon before dismounting. Petting his mare, he murmured soft words to ease her temper. She shook her broad head and gave him a contemptuous stare. Her trust in him was minimal at best.

  Yet he did not worry she would run. They needed each other to survive.

  Once she was at ease, the young man turned to survey the damage. Closest to him was a woman who could not have been more than eighteen years old, her belly torn asunder, blue eyes wide and glassy and staring in unspeakable horror at the wooden vehicle. The plain brown cotton of her dress was smattered with her blood. Tragic; once she had been quite lovely.

  Several feet away lay the ravaged body of the man who must have been her husband. In life he had been a blatant two decades her elder. Now all that remained was a body ripped to shreds, savagely eaten for both nutrients and sport.

  Such was the result of a lycan ambush.

  It was not unusual to find pioneer couples on the roadside in this manner. What was unusual was the fact they had been alone and had refused to travel by train. Whatever their reasons for leaving home, the driving force was most likely shame.

  The only truly baffling question was where the mules had gone. Whatever had pulled the cart seemed to have dissipated into the dry evening air.

  His heart swelled with sorrow to see the man face down and lifeless. He had been following this particular person for quite a time now, and learning he had left South Carolina had frightened and frustrated the young man to no end. This was not the denouement he had hoped for.

  There was no sense in allowing the supplies to go to waste, he supposed. Gingerly he stepped over the woman, taking exaggerated care to avoid her tumble of silvery blonde hair. Even in death he had a penchant for yellow tresses. They reminded him of the sunny days that once were, and he had no desire to tarnish that imagery post-mortem.

  Hoisting himself into the wagon, the young man was about to rummage through the coarse knapsacks when a noise caught his attention.

  Sharply he looked up. There—in the back. Not a lycan; the smell was all wrong.

  “Who remains?” he called.

  A tiny head poked out from beneath a fold of rumpled homemade quilt. Wedged behind bags of grain was a toddler of no more than two years. He had his mother’s sunny hair—

  And his father’s coal black eyes.

  The young man’s breath hitched. Hope sprouted in his chest. There was a descendent.

  Dark eyes wide and frightened, the child stuck one hand in his mouth and sucked on his fingers. In spite of his fear, their gazes held. The boy appeared intrigued.

  After introducing himself, the young man inquired, “Do you have a name?”

  The toddler nodded. His eyes remained riveted with glimmering intensity.

  “Do you know how to pronounce it?”

  Stuffing his spare index finger into his mouth, the toddler said nothing. The young man could practically see the violent deaths of this child’s parents reflected in those wide, haunted eyes.

  The young man extended an olive-toned hand. He spoke quietly, giving careful consideration to his words. “I would like you to come with me.” The child made no move to comply. “There is a village nearby, you see. They are renowned for their delectable cheeses, though their bread and milk are rather delicious all the same.”

  At the mention of food, the toddler’s eyes lit up. He nodded enthusiastically and finally—finally—removed his hands from his mouth to climb away from the comfort of his grains and quilt. When he grasped the young man’s hand his touch was warm, inviting, and earnest.

  The young man enveloped the boy in his arms, fighting off tears. His century of seeking out his family was at last over. All that was left was for the child to survive the infection.

  With great care to hide the boy’s face in his weather-worn jacket, Aaron Johnson climbed out of the wagon.

  Chapter Two

  “Daddy, knock it off!”

  Henry Adair cursed and glowered at his daughter from beneath his thick brow. “What’d I do this time?”

  Rachael snatched the salt shaker from his grasp and shoved her father away from the stove. “That’s too much salt. Now it’ll taste awful.”

  “You said one tablespoon!”

  “I said one teaspoon, Daddy.” Setting the salt out of her father’s reach, Rachael said, “We need a potato. Do we have one?”

  “Who in damnation puts a potato in meat sauce?” demanded her father.

  Already a headache was forming behind her eyes, and they hadn’t even boiled water for the pasta. “It’s to absorb the salt,” she explained patiently.

  “Sounds like a bunch of bunk, Sheila never used any freakin’ potatoes....” Grumbling, her dad lumbered back to the refrigerator.

  Frustrating as he was making this endeavor, Rachael had a hard time staying angry with him. Her father’s health and appearance had taken strong blows in recent years; once when his wife passed away two years ago, and again when his son went missing the day of her wake. Where Henry’s hair had been a rich walnut brown, these days it was streaked with grim smudges of grey. He had always been a typical large, built construction man. Now fat outweighed muscle, taking the edge from his intimidating posture.

  Worse in Rachael’s eyes was that she knew the truth. Her older brother, Jackson, wasn’t exactly missing. He had been infected and turned into a werewolf, and the pack responsible for his transformation had whisked him into hiding. She had no idea where he was, or if he had even beaten the odds and lived through the oft-deadly infection.

  To quell her welling depression, Rachael turned back to their cooking. Her father was peeling a small potato over the sink, still muttering to himself. She grabbed a large pot from one of the lower cabinets and joined him, filling the pot with hot water.

  When 7 o’clock rolled around, dinner was almost ready and Rachael was beginning to get nervous. It had taken considerable effort for her to prepare for this night. Between her classwork, putting together her senior portfolio, and assembling something that resembled a meal on the table every night, she had also spent the last week cleaning. Honestly, she had hoped to at least mow the yard. But between taking on what used to be her mother’s role and making good grades in school, Rachael felt she hardly had time to breathe.

  On top of that, for all her efforts the results were meager. The house was still a cluttered mess. Outside, the view from the kitchen window displayed a back yard that was overgrown, her carefully planned
garden long dead. The hedges were high and unkempt; the ivy-drenched fence overrun and falling apart from the stress of Mother Nature’s demands.

  Inside the home, all she had to offer was spaghetti with too-salty sauce, store-bought bread rolls that were already going stale, and tap water.

  By 7:30 her father was no longer willing to wait. The two ate in silence, with Rachael casting forlorn glances at the unoccupied third place setting. Perhaps his visitation was just a pipe dream after all.

  After dinner she washed the dishes while her father readied himself for work. More and more he threw himself into the late-night shifts, claiming there was an extra percentage incentive in those odd hours that they couldn’t afford to turn down. Rachael had to agree; they were finally close to paying off her late mother’s extensive medical bills, but funding the tireless search for Jackson gobbled up so much cash that it oftentimes cut into their grocery budget.

  Sometimes it seemed Henry was so intent on finding his son that he forgot he still had a daughter.

  On his way out, her father stepped back into the kitchen. “Be in bed by ten,” he said gruffly.

  Rarely did he treat her like the high school girl she was anymore. Unfortunately.... “It’s Friday, Daddy.”

  Henry blinked, perplexed, and then gave a non-committal grunt before he left. The protesting churn of an old car engine rumbled from the front of their house.

  Once she was certain he was gone, Rachael didn’t bother stifling her sigh. She was practically an adult these days, and she sorely missed the lack of responsibility. Based the imminent threats of her teachers, college would only get worse—if she even attended. Her father was such an emotional wreck that Rachael’s plans for the future were murky at best.

  So busy was she mulling over her hazy prospects, Rachael didn’t hear someone knocking on the front door until it rose to a frenzied tattoo. Afraid to hope, she wiped her wet hands on her jeans before running to answer with reckless abandon.

  Sheepishly, Holden Cavanaugh said, “I know, I know, I’m late.”

  A bright smile split her face. Rachael invited him in from the blustering autumn cold as she thought, He actually made it.

  Holden hung his jacket on a hook in the foyer, his rusty brown hair taking on more orange in the light. The more Rachael saw him, the less she could believe she had ever thought his looks plain. His muscles had grown more defined since she first met him, and he had allowed his hair to grow a couple extra inches so it fell near his eyes and enhanced the gold flecks in his gaze. But otherwise his features were objectively unremarkable; utterly unchanged from two years ago. His dress was simple, too, with a white-on-stone striped shirt, jeans, and tattered brown hiking boots.

  To Rachael he was one of the most attractive men on earth.

  “I’m really sorry,” Holden apologized again. “Some jerkoff insisted staying on the course until the very last minute.”

  Aware she was still grinning like an idiot, Rachael attempted to smooth her expression. “It’s okay. Probably better you missed Daddy.”

  His nose wrinkled. “He still hates me.”

  Treading cautiously, Rachael replied, “Hate’s a strong word... stubbornly doesn’t like, maybe?”

  A sly smile made his eyes glitter. “Then I guess I’m not spending the night.”

  Flustered, Rachael turned on her heel and made for the kitchen. “So, food—it’s not there. Um, that is, we already ate, but if you’re hungry—wait, are you?”

  Holden was right on her heels. “I could eat.”

  “It’s not great.” Realizing that was a stupid thing to say, Rachael whirled to face him. “I mean, it’s okay. The sauce is a little salty, Daddy put too much salt in and the potato didn’t—er, it’s a little—”

  To shut her up, Holden clamped a hand over her mouth. He had become awfully comfortable doing that when she babbled. Not that Rachael truly minded. His palm was warm against her lips, and that warmth was spreading across her face.

  “I’m sure it’s great,” said Holden gently. “I’d love to try it.”

  When his hand lowered, Rachael felt in control of her tongue again. “I’ll get you a plate.”

  She hated to reheat pasta in the microwave, but Holden made no arguments. If anything his appetite was voracious and the sauce apparently wasn’t too salty to stop him from requesting seconds. While he ate he recounted his day at the golf course. Rachael filled him in on West Keeton High’s gossip. It was nice, she thought, to sit at the table and chat like normal people.

  Holden, of course, was not normal. He was a 126 year-old werewolf. Or, per the terms of his kind, a lycan. When his old pack had hauled Jackson off in secrecy, their alpha had decided to send Holden back to the Pacific Northwest and keep Rachael company.

  Initially, she had hoped he could keep her updated on Jackson’s condition or whereabouts. That dream shattered when Holden revealed he didn’t know any more than her. He knew of Jackson’s last location, but the moment her brother and the pack had boarded a plane in Little Rock, Jackson fell off Holden’s radar. All Rachael had was her friend’s assurance that Jackson was still dealing with his newfound curse.

  She also had their leader’s solemn vow to return her brother “the day—the instant” Jackson was ready. Whatever “ready” meant.

  According to Holden, a new lycan or “pup” could take anywhere from one to ten years to adjust. He had explained that there were blackout periods in which a pup might lose consciousness yet still be mobile, similar to sleepwalking. And that was just the beginning of problems for the few who survived an infected wolf bite. Jackson would also have to deal with the pain of transformation, learn how to suppress his instincts in human form, readjust to life with enhanced senses, and—to add insult to injury—growing pains like aching joints and bleeding gums.

  Throughout it all, Rachael hadn’t heard a word from her brother. No phone calls, emails, or even postcards. Likewise, Holden admitted he hadn’t heard from his alpha at all. Unlike Rachael, he was quite happy about it. Apparently this was his first real taste of freedom in his entire life.

  “Ray?” Holden snapped his fingers.

  She shook her head, embarrassed to be caught spacing out. “Sorry... what’d you say?”

  Holden didn’t press for answers about her daydreams. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over tomorrow. You know, if your dad says it’s okay.”

  The likelihood was slim, but she nodded anyway. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

  “I figured I’d make cupcakes.” Again he looked chagrined. “Would’ve done it today, but... anyway, I bought the stuff for red velvet.”

  Rachael groaned in appreciation. “That sounds so good.” One of her favorite things about Holden was his knack for cooking. His dinners were sublime, but his baking was to die for. He’d made all sorts of meals and treats for her over the last two years, from shepherd’s pie with deer meat to snickerdoodles.

  Pleasure stained his face. “Awesome.” Abruptly he stood and reached into his pocket. Silver glinted in his hand as he handed the item to her. “I didn’t have time to wrap it. Sorry. I’m pretty much failing at celebrating today.”

  Rachael accepted the offer, taking one good look at it before she burst out laughing. A grin lit Holden’s face.

  Though she rarely wore jewelry, she knew she would start now. Hanging from a short, thin chain was a steel pendant intricately molded into a wolf’s head. Even the bared teeth were done to pointed perfection. But what had really made Rachael laugh were the tiny red gems glittering from the eye sockets, so dramatically evil it was comical.

  Still giggling, she looked up at him. “I like wolves. I love this. Thank you.”

  Holden covered her hand with his, a soft smile playing with his mouth. “Happy birthday, Rachael.”

  All day she had told herself she would be fine if nobody remembered. For the past few years she hadn’t gone out of her way to announce it. So Rachael was surprised when she began to tear up. Swiping at her eyes with her
free hand, she smiled and thanked Holden again.

  After she clasped the pendant around her throat, Holden decided to help her with the dishes.

  “So your dad never fixed it, huh?” Holden nodded at the dishwasher.

  Rachael made a face. “Not really. It’s been so long we kind of forget it’s there anyway.” She took a wet plate from him, wiping the generous amount of water off with an old plaid rag.

  Shrugging, Holden waited to hand her another dish before starting on the silverware. “Well, yeah, but it’d shave half an hour from your chores every night.”

  “Sure, but we barely have food as it is. The only reason we don’t eat out all the time is because it’s too expensive.”

  Holden sighed. “I really wish he’d let you out more. I don’t mind making dinner for you.”

  In that context Rachael almost felt like a charity case. She shoved that discomfort aside. “I know, but...”

  He shot her a wry, cocked smile. “Since I love doing it, your dad’s the only problem. I mean, really, even Jackson wasn’t this—” Too late he cut himself off. Ears red, he muttered, “My bad.”

  The pang in her chest was almost unbearable, but Rachael did her best to shake it off. “You don’t have to do that,” she said quietly. “He’s not Mama. He’ll come home.” She took the damp silverware and put them away without bothering to wipe them dry. Despite her assurances she found herself avoiding eye contact.

  “Hey.” Holden touched her arm, urging her to turn back and look at him. “You’re right. He’ll be back, probably any day now.”

  Dubious, Rachael replied, “When your—when he told me Jackie was stubborn and should make it, I just... I worry. He’s stubborn but he’s never been, well, active.”

  “That only factors in a little.” He assured her the same way he had a dozen times before. “I mean, he got his own brother infected and they both lived. I think it’s at least half genetic. And Jackson was past the worst when I last saw him. So as long as he’s being taken care of, he’ll be fine.”