Collected

Collected

by Shawntelle Madison

This novella is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons living or dead is purely
coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 Shawntelle Madison

Cover design: Shawntelle Madison

Edited by Jennifer Jakes

Copyedited by Sarah Bromley

Smashwords Edition 1.0

All rights reserved. Except as permitted
under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by
any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without
prior written permission of the author.

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of this author.

* * * * *

Other Titles by Shawntelle Madison

Coveted

Kept

* * * * *

Chapter One

This story takes place seven months before
Coveted begins.

The bid button on auction websites was an
evil mistress that I’d love to drop. Whether their font was bold,
cursive, or some other customer-grabbing style, those auctions
snagged me each and every time. They also made me a promise. All I
had to do to add to my ever-growing collection of trinkets was
periodically press on my mouse like a junkie pining for the next
fix. The only way to stop me from drying up my bank account with
repeated bids was the satisfaction of seeing my username,
NatalyaStravinsky
, as the highest bidder.

Thankfully, with a high-speed Internet
connection and quick-moving fingers, I collected my latest prize: A
haunted Victorian figurine from the 1800s that a woman had once
used to off her philandering husband. Cast in bronze with a perfect
sheen, it was ideal for either inducing blunt force trauma or as a
centerpiece for an end table.

That last auction I won ended five days ago,
and I knew my winnings were due to arrive today. I’d taken the
afternoon off work and drove slightly over the speed limit down
Garden State Parkway. Along the way, I berated every slow-driving
citizen of South Toms River, New Jersey. Didn’t they know my prized
package was waiting on my doorstep?

Anticipation tingled down my arms as I drove
up my long driveway to my cottage. On any other day, I would’ve
admired all the hard work I’d done to prepare the flowerbeds along
the road. Or even the fragrant flowers that had recently blossomed
below the dogwood tree near the house. No, what caught my eye was
my doorstep.

My box was missing.

My nose, quite keen even for a werewolf, told
me that no one had been here since I left the cottage. And I knew
the deliveryman’s aftershave-laden scent too well. Since I lived
right outside of town there were no neighbors to consider. No one
had taken it from the house.

A sane person might track the package online
or call the delivery truck. Since I ordered so much from the Home
Shopping Network, the deliveryman—James—knew me by name and was
also aware of how twitchy I became if a package didn’t arrive on
time.

Instead of calling him—I’d show some
self-control for at least five minutes—I focused on my prize and
waited patiently. Two minutes later, I caved and my smartphone told
me the obvious: PACKAGE DROPPED OFF. SIGNATURE RETRIEVED AT 10:50
A.M.

Naturally, as I clutched the phone tight
enough to crush it, my first thought was
by whom
. Especially
since I lived alone and didn’t expect any friends—you needed to
have some in the first place—to come by and pick it up.

My fingers trembled as I dialed James’ cell
phone. With each ring, my heartbeat thundered, leaving me bitter
that it took so long to connect. After the fourth one, James
finally answered.

“Hey! You like your gift?” His gruff voice
always sounded cheerful during the spring time. He was less cordial
when snow was piled on the walkway.

“Gift? I just got home.”

He laughed softly. “So you’re telling me you
forgot you met me at the mailbox this morning?”

If a heart defibrillator had been nearby, I
would’ve jolted myself with the damn thing.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, c’mon,” he jested. “You were standing by
the side of the road. It was rather nice of you, by the way,
instead of forcing me to drive up your long driveway. At first, I
was kinda surprised since you looked so unusual.”

My voice came out higher-pitched than usual.
“In what way?”

As a human, James didn’t know about the world
of supernatural creatures around him. Surely, the most he knew
about werewolves were from what he’d seen on TV or in books.

“Usually, you’re so dressed up, but you were
in jeans for once. You should wear them more often.”

His voice faded as the phone dropped out of
my hand. I could still hear him, but that didn’t matter anymore.
Someone, looking just like me, had taken my package. My fingertips
brushed against my blouse and pencil skirt. They were clean, of
course—even after a few hours of work. My standard uniform. Since I
wore the same set of clothes every day, anything off from my
routine should’ve stood out to someone like James.

Which led me to my super genius moment: I’d
been robbed in broad daylight.

I barely remembered how I ended my call with
James, maybe I’d mumbled thanks or something, but I did recall
racing down my driveway—in low-heels and all—to reach the road. My
gaze quickly went to the ground. Then my nose went to the air. All
the clues should be here waiting for me.

While I scanned the grass and surrounding
tree line, my brain chewed on ideas. I paced back and forth, trying
to wrap my head around what could’ve happened. A small branch broke
in the distance, drawing my eye—but it was nothing but a large
bird. The whole forest had a bunch of wildlife. Even the fragrant
pine and ash trees would’ve been a delight to visitors, but to me
they were an olfactory distraction.

As I walked, I approached a familiar large
rock. The sight of it stirred memories in my mind. The dark gray
stone—about the size of a head—reminded me of the “for sale” sign
that had leaned against it five years ago. The grass had been
overgrown back then, but I’d ignored it. At the time, I’d been
steadfast for a new start. That included a new job as a clerk at
the Bend of the River Flea Market, or The Bends as the locals
called it. I worked day-to-day for a goblin boss named Bill,
selling antiques to finicky supernatural creatures along the
Parkway.

All of those things, including my new home,
were a way to forget about the man who haunted my past.

The task at hand attacked me like a horsefly.
Dwelling on what I did with my life after I got kicked out of the
pack wouldn’t help me find the package.

First of all, whoever did this knew I’d been
expecting a package. Second, it had to be a supernatural, someone
with the ability to alter how they looked. A glamour, or
appearance-altering spell, could be thrown about by most
forest-dwelling creatures such as brownies, goblins, and the like.
Sure, those magical troublemakers operated businesses around here,
but a few of them made mischief whenever possible.

All of this meant another werewolf didn’t do
this. A lingering scent confirmed my suspicions. It flowed around
my nose, damp and heavy like rich moss sprinkled with a metallic
smell. A distinct one at that. A pair of tracks revealed someone
with tennis shoes. My size, no doubt. Whoever did this had waited
in the grass by the road and strolled right up to it. From there,
the shoes walked twenty feet and then somehow shrank down a bit.
The trail led southward.

For a split-second, I was tempted to discard
my shoes and track them on foot. That’s what any other werewolf
would do. But I didn’t operate that way, nor would I even entertain
that idea, no matter how much I wanted that box. The very idea of
ruining my pantyhose was enough to make me get in my car. With my
options limited, I rolled down the window and hoped my prey wasn’t
far away.

* * *

The trail took me south beyond South Toms
River toward the deeper woods. Jakes Branch County Park loomed to
the west with the town of Beachwood to the east. Most of the pack
ran here during the full moon as wolves.

When the scent began to dissipate, I pulled
off to the side of the road. All around me was nothing but trees. I
peered through the brush, hoping for a building or some structure.
With none nearby, the obvious question came to mind: How badly did
I want that box? (A lot.) Did I want it enough to go into the
forest? (Damn right, I paid a pretty penny for expedited shipping,
too.) All the while, my fingers tapped against the steering wheel.
Having an obsessive-compulsive disorder really messed with me at
times. Especially right now. The compulsion to stay clean nipped at
me, while the wolf inside grew excited over the prospects of a
hunt. It had been far too long since I’d hunted prey bigger than
the rabbits hiding along my property.

After a few deep breaths, I managed to open
the door. No, I just couldn’t get dirty. I couldn’t go running off
through the woods into God knew what—poison ivy, spiderwebs, or
worse. I’d have to bathe for hours to get it all off me. The next
step should’ve been to leave the car. Unfortunately, I used it to
shut the door.

There had to be another way. Some other way
to reach my destination and maintain my sanity. I kept driving
south.

The scent wasn’t as heavy, but it
remained.

Eventually, a right-hand turn appeared. Maybe
a real path could be found. The gravel road led to a vacant lot
with a small building and a tool shed. Based on the shape of the
large building at one corner, a township stored their snow plows
here. Bags of salt were stacked on top of each other. Not far from
the piles was a second gravel path. My nose told me to go that
way.

I pulled off the side, got out of the car,
and then slowly strode toward the path. The scent was ever so
faint, like detecting perfume left on clothes from the night
before. The trail led me behind the buildings.

Spring had sprung all around me, yet I didn’t
notice its fragrance due to the forest’s filth. Broken branches
covered in sickly green moss. There had to be red trilliums nearby.
The wildflower was lovely, but it stank to high heaven like
carrion. Sadly, the only thing that smelled sweet was the faint
fragrance of barren strawberries that had yet to come into full
bloom. Yet another scent prevailed over everything, a swampy one
from the rain that had fallen a few days ago.

Every awkward step in my heels sent shocks of
pain into my ankles. But I kept going. I kept moving. What drew me
forward was the hunger for confrontation, the hunger to see
whatever had taken what was rightfully mine.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to touch any trees
or step on anything other than the gravel. The dust from the path
would be easy enough to clean off. After a ways, the path turned
into a clearing. With each step, I told myself,
Stop looking
around you. Don’t think about the fallen trees. Don’t think about
the grass, and for goodness sake, don’t think about your damn
shoes
.

I was a werewolf, and I needed to focus on
the hunt.

Rays of sunlight peeked through the trees.
Branches hovered over the clearing like a mother protecting her
child from the rain. But even with the speckled light, I could make
out some kind of tool shed surrounded by a graveyard of scrap
metal. The haphazard piles included refrigerators, televisions, and
other electronics.

I sucked in a breath. They were rusted,
putrid things.

Right next to the junk, leaning against the
shed, was another unsteady structure which couldn’t be classified
as a home. Bits and pieces of the scrap metal, along with crumbled
bricks, had been used to protect it from the elements. A thick
tree, most likely oak, jutted out from the back and provided ample
shade over the shed and ramshackle house. My mom always said a home
was any place where you could burn what you caught and quartered,
but this was ridiculous. I gazed with disdain at the place. At the
mud along the bent-in door. What kind of person lived like
this?

Yet a trail of smoke from a slanting chimney
told a different tale. Something
lived
here. And that
something had the scent of the intruder who took my package.