Guarding Justice Read online

  GUARDING

  JUSTICE

  Sherry L. Brown

  Copyright © 2019 Sherry L. Brown

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781694488916

  Cover art: Sherry Brown

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you J.D. Thank you Dad. Thank you Mom. Thank you friends and family. And most especially, thank you FP.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Note from the Author

  This book has a soundtrack/playlist. These are songs I listened to while I wrote and will lend a ‘mood’ if you wish to listen while you read.

  You can listen to it here:

  http://bit.ly/GuardingJustice

  CHAPTER 1

  I am death’s right hand woman.

  “Number ten scalpel.”

  I hand him the requested tool.

  There’s no acknowledgement when his fingers close around it.

  He makes the standard incision with smooth precise movements.

  “Shears.” He holds the scalpel out for me to take, I replace it with the next tool.

  Watch the precision with which he removes the sternum.

  All looks normal to me. The pericardial sac, the lungs. All healthy.

  So what killed this woman?

  We go through the entire process of inspecting and cataloging her organs.

  We find the killer in her brain. Aneurysm.

  Humans are so fragile.

  “Close up, for me Justine. I’ve got an early lunch.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” I cringe, noting that it’s been an entire year since I accepted this assistant job, and he still can’t get my name right.

  His lunches usually consist of two martinis followed by a blowjob from a high-class call girl.

  How do I know this? He drops his receipts in the work trash, and on more than one occasion I’ve spotted lipstick on his trousers. She also wears some kind of cotton candy-esque perfume.

  My eye for details is extremely ridiculous even to me. Useless inane details.

  It’s what also makes me good at this job. I study my neat stitches.

  A pleased satisfaction overtakes me. You can’t even tell where the incision was made.

  I go through the motions to get Mrs. Margery Dillon back in her cold storage.

  The monotony of life. The monotony of death.

  I feel something inside me; it wants me to shake things up, set myself free, run wild and perversely punish myself. This thing is neither in my mind nor my heart. It’s in the pit of my stomach, the muscles of my legs. The muscles that are ready to spring, even right now, they’re anticipating something that I am quelling down.

  It’s my wolf. My wild, raw, animalistic partner.

  She chafes at being inside a windowless room all day. She chafes at sitting behind the desk.

  Typing reports. The same thing day-in and day-out. A layer of dogged tiredness covers the restlessness. It comes from doing the daily grind I guess. It materializes as a permanent soreness of my shoulders, an ache behind my eyes. I’m glad it’s there, keeping the restlessness from creeping into my daily thoughts - preventing me from doing something rash. Despite that tiredness, I feel like I could run twenty miles, pounding the ground with my feet, sweating out my frustrations, mindlessly running from…not problems necessarily…but running from life. Running from the people that I am supposed to love unconditionally, my family, my pack. Running from the motivation, the work, running from everything that I am supposed to want, to wish for, to earn.

  Running from fate. Tonight.

  Tonight, I promise myself, I’ll run to the ends of the earth.

  Chapter 2

  The fear is real and alive in my belly. I have no power here. No control. No recourse.

  Independence’s head slashes in the most subtlest head shake to me.

  I want so badly to step in. Speak up. I fight the urge.

  I don’t want to make this worse for her.

  She has to weather this storm. She has to stand up for herself. Find her place in our pack.

  Emily is Rick’s daughter. The matriarch of our pack. And tonight, she has challenged my younger sister to hold that position.

  Our pack dynamics are fragile, have been since the two deaths of thirteen years ago. Rosamund, never fully recovered from Emily’s birth six years earlier. And my mother.

  Another challenge. And they both died.

  I force myself to breath around the fear. Rick won’t let such a devastation happen again.

  He can’t afford to lose one female let alone two.

  “It’ll be a first-to-wolf combat challenge!” His voice rings out in the small meadow.

  There’s quite a bit of murmuring that breaks out among the pack.

  Indy’s only changed one time. A month ago, and a month late. I’d barely held it together, held the stress at bay, the fear for her.

  The relief when she finally became a wolf was a tremendous weight lifted from my shoulders. Even the rumors that her father is most-likely human haven’t bothered me. Much.

  I love her all the same. But to the pack? To the pack a half-breed is an abomination to our pure bloodlines.

  I want to tell them our pure bloodlines are also the reason we are damn near an extinct species - but I keep such theories to myself. I keep a lot to myself.

  Surviving. Living under the radar.

  But Indy. She’s too bright, too young, too beautiful, too sassy, too full of alpha-attitude to go unnoticed by jealous eyes. She may be half a wolf, but that half has tremendous power and potential.

  A ring of salt, eight feet or so in circumference, is being laid down in the dirt now.

  Indy crosses to me, pulling off her hoodie and shoes as she walks.

  “Will you hold these?” Her voice comes out strong, confident.

  My arms automatically take what she holds out to me. I’m the mom at her daughter’s soccer game. A useful spectator.

  “Indy.” I say, unsure of what I can do to stop this. I grip her wrist before she can walk away. The bloody waterfall of my premonition blinks into my mind and the unease and anxiety I felt earlier in the day balloons through me.

  “It’ll be alright. I’m not going to change.” She assures me.

  “That’s not it. I’ve seen something. Be careful. Don’t trust that Emily will fight fair.” It’s the only warning I can give. The only advice I have.

  Indy nods, and I see an understanding dawn in her eyes.

  She pulls away then, and I steel myself for what’s to come.

  Indy and Emily take stances on opposite sides of the ring. The point of the challenge is to force the other to change into their wolf. The first to do so is the loser, as this means their control over their beast can be ruled by another.

  Our small pack of twenty-five closes in around them.

  “Begin!” Rick shouts from his spot outside the ring.

  His voice grates up my spine and I fight down the urge to tell him to end this.

  He’s a manipulative, abusive leader and any boon I ask of him will come with a price. It might be too high for me to pay. And cost Indy more than we can afford.

  Indy and Emily step into the circle, and seconds pass were they eye each-other.

  Emily’s eyes hold a cruel gleam not unlike what I’ve seen on her face before. She looks to Rick who gives a nod, and then back to Indy.

  In that moment, I see a slithering shadow behind her eyes, but before I can get a better look, she is launching herself at Indy.

  She claws her hands strai
ght at Indy’s face. Indy steps to the left and spins behind her.

  She is quick, and gets Emily in a head lock.

  There’s a collective silence as we watch Emily beat at Indy’s hold uselessly. Her eyes are shuttering down.

  Abruptly, Indy’s eyes widen, and her arms fall away from Emily.

  Separated, I can see that something is very wrong. Indy is bent over, eyes closed, a hand reaching behind her. She turns, and I see a dagger’s hilt protruding from low on her shoulder, close to her elbow.

  Indy falls to her knees as I step forward.

  An arm bars me from entering the ring.

  “Let me in! It’s cheating!” I add my voice to the other’s yells. Some in disgust for the blatant disregard of the rules, some to lend their opinions on the matter.

  “Let me help her! This challenge is over!” I yell at Rick. I’m still pushing forward, attempting to get through the arms holding me back.

  He surveys my sister on the ground. Eyes Emily.

  He motions for everyone to calm down.

  On the opposite side of the circle, there’s a scuffle as Jonah, Emily’s boyfriend, is held between two of her older brothers.

  The three of them look unhappy.

  Deciding, Rick enters the ring, and lifts Emily’s arm in victory.

  “Emily is the winner. The clear matriarch to our pack!” Rick declares.

  The pack seems split; half know her petty, entitled personality and cruel immaturity are hardly good qualities for a leader. The other half rejoice, because they share the same qualities. Between them, Emily’s brother’s release Jonah and he sweeps her up into his arms with a passionate embrace. I have to set aside my anger now. Indy needs me.

  I push through the crowd and kneel beside Indy.

  She’s unconscious and her breath is shallow, raspy. Her breathing sounds like small air bubbles escaping a tight seal. Probably pierced her lung.

  God. Can I fix this?

  Chapter 3

  It had been a long night. Had I done the right thing giving Indy over to Glory and Grayson?

  Only time will tell. There was relief in the relinquishment of responsibility. God help me. She’d been my charge for thirteen years, and I was - maybe happy is too strong a word - but okay to let her go. Could it be more than just letting go? I want her out of Rick’s sphere of influence. Out of the threats of the pack. She’s seventeen now, and how long could I expect to protect her? Obviously I’d failed in that.

  I scrub, I swipe, I mop.

  I’d seen pure evil in Emily. Her face twisted into something...not herself. The shadows I witnessed behind her eyes made me think possession, but had I really seen them?

  I bundle the soiled towels into a trash bag, and pour my water/bleach mix down the drain.

  I’ll have to burn this entire bag, or the garbage men will be reporting me for murder.

  The sun is creeping up in the horizon when I drop the trash bag just outside the door.

  What will this new day bring? I can’t even contemplate.

  I’ve been in survivor mode. Not just last night - well technically early this morning - but for the past thirteen years.

  I’d accepted Grayson’s opportunities as they came, subtly disguised offerings from the universe.

  First it was a weekly delivery of groceries. Then the ‘scholarship’ to med school.

  Direct money contributions are prohibited between packs.

  Grayson managed to find a way around it. And I am forever grateful. He’d saved us, my older sister’s husband. For that I’ll never be able to pay him back.

  I sit down heavily in the old dining room chair. It’s wood finish has been worn at the top by years of hands pulling it out to sit down. I’d shoved it out of the way last night, oh shoot, there I go again mixing up the technicalities - this morning - when I’d made a hasty operating table.

  This kitchen is high on functionality and low on aesthetics, but I tend to think of it as my kitchen.

  Will I get to stay here? The last thing Grayson had said to me as he carried Independence out the door had been: We’ll take care of her, Justice. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you, too.

  I could only nod.

  What retribution would Rick seek? My stomach turns at the thought of him.

  I’d managed to keep him at bay, but only at costs to ourselves. I had to share with him the one thing my mother left me.

  The legacy of visions.

  It’s how I knew to stock up on emergency medical supplies.

  I’d been secretly preparing for six months. Ever since that night. I dreamed of a waterfall of blood. A cascade of red down a mountain. And a broken sword.

  Visions are pesky in that they are full of symbolism and very rarely actual useful information.

  I’d had my first one just before my mother died. She helped me interpret it.

  Then she’d shown me the prophecy she’d made for my sisters and I.

  Two shields and the sword. The light, the dark, the in-between. In the final war, one death to win. One death to lose. One death to go on.

  I spend too much time on those words.

  Visions don’t come very often. And in fact, I’d had so few, I can replay them all on the back of my eyelids with vivid detail. Five in total.

  Photographic memory. A bonus when it comes to studying for medical exams, but not so much for replaying gruesome sights of bloody waterfalls. It is almost as bad as that movie, The Shining. Except, where that movie’s special effects gave the water a Kool-Aid effect, my waterfall sludged with the consistency of real blood.

  I laugh a little. My superpowers are surreal dreams and turning wolfy.

  It could be worse.

  I dump my chin into my hand, unsure of what I should do now.

  Make coffee? Go to bed? Pour a glass of wine?

  I have a full two days to recover. Deal with the fallout.

  I’m expected at the hospital Monday morning.

  It feels hollow now though. A pointless endeavor. I’d been working to sustain us, and while I’d enjoyed undergrad and excelled in the first two years of med school simply soaking up all the knowledge, I’d failed spectacularly when it came to actual patients. I’d done rounds with doctors and residents in everything from general surgery to pediatrics, and earned the nick-name the ice queen. I lacked ‘bedside’ manner. I floundered awkwardly through it, graduated and decided that becoming a resident and doctor probably wasn’t the exact path for me.

  So, I put in for a position that allowed me to work easy hours, made good money, and didn’t require me to be Miss Congeniality. Because the patients were dead.

  A strange dichotomy. Tired of people and yet lonely.

  I examine that thought. Maybe not so strange. I want normal people. People that are healthy and strong and don’t require sutures, a vomit-bucket, or toe tag.

  I suck in a breath, slapping myself.

  The reality is, I just sent my one sister to live with the other. And she could die. Now is not the time for a pity party. Should I have told Indy about the prophecy before today?

  No, she’s still a relative child. I made the decision not to tell her until she is eighteen. Ten more months.

  A knock at the front door has me lifting my head.

  Not yet. I can’t deal with him now! Will he want to see the body? Did the pack expect to hold their own memorial like they had when Mom died? I haven’t figured out yet what to tell Rick - if they want to see her body.

  The knock comes again.

  I look down at myself. I’d stripped down to my bra and underwear in the cleanup. My jeans and shirt had too much blood on them to even try to clean.

  Sensible bra. Fun underwear. A navy blue boy short with the word ‘wild’ emblazoned on the butt.

  Independence had got it for me last Christmas. We share a wry humor.

  I sprint out of the kitchen and catch the newel post with the heel of my hand, using my momentum to spin me a one-eighty and bound up the stairs.


  “Be right down!” I throw over my shoulder at the closed front door.

  I hear the door open and close behind me, just as my top foot hits the top step.

  Shit. I should have double checked that I locked it after Glory and all left.

  I turn back, not happy that Rick thinks he can just enter our house uninvited.

  The words I’m about to unleash stop short in my throat. It’s not Rick.

  It’s Locke. Lockewood O’Connell is the last person I expected to see tonight.

  I’ve had a crush on Locke O’Connell for years. Since I saw him stand up as Grayson’s best man at Glory’s wedding. He’d been handsome, charming then. Escorting me down the aisle at the end of the ceremony. I hadn’t plucked up the courage to even say a word to him.

  Now, he’s devastating. Wide shoulders. Long legs. Standing in my foyer in jeans, boots, and a soft t-shirt, one size too small if the stretch across his pecs is any indication.

  “Get dressed. Pack a bag and whatever you need for an indefinite stay at council headquarters.”

  No words of hello. Just orders. My brain works to make sense of what he’s saying, while taking in his jawline of alluring masculinity.

  “What?”

  His foot hits the first step of the stairs.

  Panicking, and embarrassed at my attire, I dash quickly into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

  “Just let me get dressed!” I holler through the door at him.

  In my bedroom, I plunge my hands through my dresser frantically looking for something to wear.

  Not flannel pajama pants. Not yoga pants. Not scrubs. I land on my only other pair of jeans.

  Old, patched, frayed and a little tight. A Christmas gift from Glory when I was in high school.

  I’d put a few pounds on since then. Still when I tug them on, I’m happy with the butter soft-worn feeling of denim around my legs.

  I find a shirt next. An old UC tee.

  I pull an old duffle from the top of my closet and dump in the yoga pants and pajamas that’d I’d just passed up.

  There’s an undeniable excitement in my movements. Like the packed energy in the air just before a storm. Is he the reason?