Who's Afraid Too?

Book 2: Tommi Grayson

by Maria Lewis

Genres: Fantasy; Dark Fantasy; Humorous Fantasy; Paranormal; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

'Gripping, fast-paced, and completely unexpected, Who's Afraid has more twists than a tornado. I loved this story!' Darynda Jones, New York Times bestselling author of the Charley Davidson series 'Truly one of the best in the genre I have ever read. ' Oscar-nominee Lexi Alexander (Green Street Hooligans, Punisher: War Zone, Arrow, Supergirl) Tommi Grayson: all bark, all bite . . . and now she's BACK! After the worst family reunion in history, Tommi needed some space. She's spent the last few weeks trying to understand her heritage - the one that comes with a side order of fur - as well as learning about her Maori ancestry and how she can connect to it. But she can only escape for so long. When an unspeakable evil returns, Tommi will need every piece of knowledge and all the skills she has. With the help of allies old and new, frenemies both helpful and super-annoying, she's going to take the fight to the enemy . . . Praise for Maria Lewis 'It's about time we had another kick-arse werewolf heroine - can't wait to find out what happens next!' Keri Arthur 'Journalist Maria Lewis grabs the paranormal fiction genre by the scruff of its neck to give it a shake with her debut novel Who's Afraid?' The West Australian 'Underworld meets Animal Kingdom. ' ALPHA Reader 'Lewis creates an intriguing world that's just begging to be fleshed out in further books.' APN 'If you haven't heard about Maria Lewis's new urban fantasy novel Who's Afraid you must have been living under a rock. ' Good Reading Magazine 'An intriguing take on a classic monster with vibrant, modern characters.' Sci Fi Bulletin 'Pay attention urban fantasy fans - Maria Lewis is a name you'll want to remember.' One More Page 'Definitely worth reading over and over again, as well as buying multiple copies. Great stocking stuffers, those werewolf books.' Maria Lewis's mum

Release date: January 10, 2017

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 352

Sample

It was a peaceful view. The cluster of flats looked down on an old cemetery that was mostly used as a park by local families. The youngest grave dated back to the early 1900s. Many of the tombstones were much, much older. The more beautiful headstones were at the centre of the space, whereas the forgotten ones – the ones falling into disrepair – lined the perimeter where thick foliage attempted to claim them as their own. Vines snaked along the crumbling arms of a grey angel that was resting on a mass of large bushes. Within these bushes sat two men, still and silent.

They were practically invisible as they watched the couple in the flat above go about the tedium of their daily lives. Dressed head-to-toe in black, they seemed to bleed into the darkness of the surrounding night. A bat went to land at the top of the bush and, upon sensing their presence, quickly made for a tree further away.

The nursery was on the second floor of the building and painted in traditional blue. The woman bent down to kiss the baby boy as he squirmed on the mattress. Tiptoeing from the room, she left the door half open so she could come and check on him later.

Another hour passed before the two men in the bushes even began to think about moving. They were waiting for their moment. One moved his head to the side, catching the eye of the other. They nodded in unison. Soundlessly they crept forward and out of cover. There was nothing remarkable about their clothes: black and practical. It was their faces that were more interesting. Both men were relatively pale and the shorter of the two had dark hair cut into a tidy style. As the faint light cast from a distant street lamp crossed his face, two thick scars could be seen running from his temple to his chin. His left eye was white and grey, blind to the world and whatever was happening within it. It didn’t seem to affect him though. He moved with more grace and precision than someone else might with four eyes.

The taller man was sporting a heavy beard that acted as a mask, almost completely covering the bottom half of his face. Black, beady eyes peered out from under caterpillar eyebrows and the rest of his hair grew out in trimmed, fuzzy agreement. All it took was for them to reach above their heads and pull themselves up the old brick wall of the cemetery before they were level with the Maentells’ balcony. The sliding door was even left slightly ajar. Ignoring it, they craned their necks and looked directly up at the window of the nursery above them. Dropping to a crouch, the men tensed before launching themselves in the air and up the wall. You could barely hear a noise as they scaled the side of the building, pausing only at the window to the nursery as the taller man wedged it open effortlessly.

They slipped into the room and landed with a tiny thump on the carpet next to the cot. The short man walked to the door and listened. Satisfied with what he heard, he returned to the cot. The tall man was leaning on the wooden rail and starring down at the sleeping baby. Both men lost themselves for a moment as they watched the rise and fall of the child’s chest. There was no parental pride or longing in the identical stares, only hunger. The tall man shook his head slightly and bent down into the cot, scooping the baby up and wrapping it tightly in the cotton blanket.

He didn’t even wake.

The short man went first and shot out of the second-storey window. His companion went about it more carefully, determined not to wake the baby. Not that it would matter now. With the baby cradled in one arm, he used his other to steady himself as he landed perfectly on the edge of the wall and took another small leap down on to the graveyard lawn. With not a glance behind them, the two men walked into the darkness where they’d come from and disappeared into the night.

What do you do when the people you fight for are dead?

How do you go on when the other is dying?

These were questions I never thought I would have to ask myself. And yet, they were questions I’d had running through my mind over and over again since leaving Dundee.

I kept my eyes shut for a few seconds longer and dwelled in the warmth from the afternoon sunshine that poured through the window. Accepting the inevitable I opened my eyes and let them adjust to the light as I stared at the ceiling. I was only five hours out of Dundee, but I may as well have been in another world.

When I had sped out of town four days ago I’d been possessed by the idea of putting distance between me and the rest of the world. The longer I drove and the longer I had my thoughts to myself, the more I realised where I wanted to go: Wigtown.

The tiny village of just 900 people was known as Scotland’s ‘official book town’ after it decided to rebrand itself in the nineties. Every single shop in the village was a bookshop. Oh, sure, they might sell groceries or food as well but the primary produce was knowledge; there were entire shops dedicated to bizarre subgenres you’d struggle to find a single shelf of in your regular library. I’d gotten lost on my way to Port William during a summer road trip with Joss in my late teens and discovered Wigtown accidentally. It had always been somewhere I intended to revisit, except this time I had a reason.

The sun’s cameo appearance was fleeting and I rolled on to my stomach, trying to avoid noticing the shift in temperature as the room got gradually colder. Out of habit I looked at my phone, which was turned off and sitting on my bedside table lest Lorcan be able to track me through it. I wasn’t even sure if he knew how to use that kind of technology. The scenario that seemed more accurate in my head was him crouching down on the ground, rubbing dirt between his fingers and looking off into the distance before saying ‘she’s a hundred and eighty-six degrees southwest from here.’ I smiled and scolded myself just as quickly: thoughts of Lorcan soon led to thoughts of Mari and Kane. I didn’t want to be left alone with those ghosts right now.

Heaving myself out from under the consuming duvet cover, I skipped the shower and began pulling on the first pair of pants I saw on the floor. I quickly fired up my laptop and checked my emails, replying to one from Joss saying that he had arrived at Mechtilde General in Berlin and when was I getting there.

Shrugging myself into a thick woollen jumper that fell to my knees, and grabbing gloves, a beanie and my shoulder bag, I was soon out of the door and trotting down the stairs of the Glaisnock Guest House. Some of the other lodgers were gathered around the fire in the lounge area and I crept down the hallway quietly to avoid saying hello.

I snatched the bell above the main entry door and held it to stop it ringing as I stepped out on to the street. The midafternoon air was crisp and the glimpse of sun hadn’t done anything to raise the thermostat. Wiggling my fingers into the gloves, I put my head down and walked the same path I’d been taking for the past three days.

Turning down a residential street off the town centre, I only had to go a few paces before entering an alleyway on my right and following it until a canopy of tree branches blocked out the sky above. The path turned to cobblestones the longer I followed it and then eventually a narrow dirt trail as I neared my destination.

Pushing away a low-hanging branch revealed a dark wooden cottage wedged between the natural surrounds so thoroughly it was difficult to tell where the bush ended and the house began. On my first day in town I did little more than sleep, but by day two I was on a quest to make use of this ‘time out’ I’d called on my supernatural life.

The deaths of Mari and Kane had left me thinking a lot about my mother, Tilly, who had passed almost a year ago now in a flash flood. Her passing had put me on the path to where I was now: a werewolf whose entire concept of what and who she was had been thrown out the window thanks to one fateful trip to New Zealand. My mother had told me a toxic, dangerous lie to ensure I wouldn’t do the one thing she feared most: go searching for my father Jonah Ihi. That lie had caused me a lot of pain in retrospect, more than I thought possible, and I was having trouble reconciling it with the once sunny memories I had of my mother.

I had also been left in a new place: isolated from my heritage but for the first time actually wanting to learn about it. Wigtown had seemed like the perfect place to do that. With more books than it had people, I had started browsing and asking around the various stores to find somewhere that would have the texts I needed. It was a store that specialised in cartography and selling ancient maps that gave me the first helpful suggestion, although with reluctance. The shop owner had suggested I try The Cavern.

‘I wouldn’t usually recommend it, especially to tourists,’ he’d said at the time, uncomfortably tugging at a thread on his cardigan. ‘But if that’s what you’re looking for I doubt you’ll find a better resource for it in Scotland.’

His directions hadn’t been precise and I’d ended up using my nose to track the scent of musty old books right to the doorway I was stepping through presently. One of the locals at the town’s only tavern had warned me about going here, adding that the owner was a ‘nasty old man’ who ‘hated visitors’. Commerce seemed like the wrong industry to get into for a recluse and I tended to have a way with nasty old men, so I’d disregarded the warning and had set out for The Cavern.

When I’d first entered the cottage, there hadn’t been a person in sight. I’d intended to make my presence known when I’d first arrived so that if the owner had wanted to chase me out he had the opportunity at the beginning. Yet there hadn’t been an owner to be found. Instead there was row after row of books: they’d started on shelves, but as the space had filled up, columns had been erected on the carpeted floors.

I’d let out an impressed sigh as I’d stepped further into the depths, my fingers trailing along the dusty spines. I’d scanned titles like Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth and Legend and Collected Conspiracies: From Australia to Austria. I’d picked up the very first book I’d seen with New Zealand in the title – well, had carefully wiggled from the pile like a Jenga block – and before I knew it I had been tucked into the window seat and deeply involved in the historical text. There’d been little about Maori culture or traditions, but there had been an entire chapter on the arrival of Europeans and the ensuing conflicts, treaties and negotiations.

I wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but with werewolf senses it was rare that someone was able to sneak up on me. Slowly, I’d lifted my head from the book to meet the penetrating eyes of the diminutive old man staring back at me. I don’t know what I’d expected, but I definitely hadn’t expected him to be Maori. It was rare for me to see my heritage reflected back at me in Scotland: even rarer in a tiny town that was barely a blip on the radar. Yet there he’d stood, staring right through me as if I’d been bathing in Windex. He’d broken my gaze and had glanced down at the book I’d been reading, then he’d lifted it in my hands to see the title. He’d made a dismissive snorting sound and had snatched it from my hands and stalked off into the maze of books.

‘Hey! I was reading that,’ I’d said, following his tiny frame as he’d weaved in and out of the row of books. He’d come to an abrupt halt and I’d had to stop myself from walking right into him as he’d bent down and plucked three heavy volumes from a pile.

‘Here,’ he’d said, turning and handing them to me. ‘What you’re looking for you won’t find in that tourist brochure you were reading. Start with these and then we can talk.’

Open-mouthed, I’d glanced at what he had offloaded to me: Dreamtime to Maori Deities: Australasian Myths and Legends, The Ancient Ways – Polynesian Principles And Understanding and Creation Stories of the Maori People. By the time I’d read the titles he’d disappeared back into the depths of the cottage and had left me to my own devices.

By my third day of coming here, we’d settled into a pattern: I returned whatever books he’d given me the night before and got to work on the new ones he had laid out that day. This time he had a steaming cup of tea made just the way I like it waiting next to the pile of books, as if he’d known the exact moment I was coming. The day before there had been a ham and cheese sandwich. He rarely said a word to me and only occasionally drifted by to see how I was progressing.

I sat at the window seat and moved the books aside, warming my hands on the tea. I sensed his presence before I saw him and I mentally tracked his path to where I sat using my enhanced hearing and scent. He was holding a fat, ginger cat that was purring loudly as he stroked it. This man watched me, always watched me, as if he was moving cautiously in my presence. He moved an old newspaper from an armchair with one hand and sat down to join me. Questions were dancing on my lips, dying to surge forward and take centre stage, but I waited. Somehow I sensed that he had to speak first. And he did.

‘This is David.’

‘Who is?’ I asked.

‘The cat.’

‘The cat is David?’

‘Yes. I thought it was an amusing name.’ The way he said the word ‘amusing’ made the very concept seem foreign and strange, as if he was unsure what amusement was. He gave me a vague smile. ‘I’m Chester.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Tommi.’

‘Chester Rangi.’

‘Tommi Grayson.’

He nodded.

‘When I asked around town about this place, I didn’t expect you to be –’

‘Polynesian? Like you?’

I shrugged. ‘Nice, actually.’

He laughed and the sound was mildly terrifying. Even David was startled, leaping off his master’s lap and running for cover.

‘Were you, uh, expecting me?’ I asked.

‘Yes. And no. One should always expect brothers and sisters even when they’re not expected.’

Great. Fucking mystical riddles. I wanted to ask him if he had always lived in Scotland because his Kiwi accent was vague, but I didn’t want a reply like ‘always and never’.

‘What have you learned?’ he asked, nodding at the books.

‘A lot,’ I replied with a sigh. ‘Although I’m not sure exactly what I’m trying to learn or what I’m looking for … just a beginning, I guess.’

‘You need to tell me your story.’

It wasn’t a request: it was a demand. Lorcan’s face flashed to my mind and I pushed it away, tracing the scars that encircled my wrist instead. If Chester noticed, I couldn’t tell. He just held my gaze until suddenly I was telling him my story. Not the furry version, mind you, the sanitised version. When I finished, he was silent for such a long while I wondered if he had fallen asleep. But then he blinked and shifted in his seat, playing with the faint hair that was growing on the chin of his old, wrinkled face.

‘No plurals,’ he stated.

‘What?’

‘No plurals. Pākehā might throw an S on the end of everything, but we are not them. That’s not how we speak about our people.’

‘Pākehā,’ I frowned, recalling the term that I had just read two chapters earlier. ‘New Zealanders of European descent.’

‘White people,’ he corrected. ‘You are not that. You’re not completely us either, but when you speak of your blood – Tommi Ihi – it’s Te Whānau Ihi. No S.’

‘Te Whānau Ihi,’ I repeated, mimicking his pronunciation before I frowned. ‘And it’s Tommi Grayson, so we’re crystal-bloody-clear.’

He shrugged. ‘You feel lost.’

‘Aye. And confused.’

‘You feel betrayed by your mother.’

‘Yes,’ I gulped, as he cut right through the bullshit.

‘And you think researching Maori history will help?’

‘I … I don’t know. I feel like I’m simultaneously running from and to it. I never had any desire to learn about this side of me before and now after everything, I’ve realised I’m alone. Truly alone.’

‘To live this life is to be alone,’ he said. ‘That’s the reality. You have friends, you have family, you have loved ones. They leave and you lose. People are in your life like seasons. The only way to survive is to become comfortable with the person you’re left with when everything else is stripped away.’

I thought about that idea and instinctually found myself tilting my chin upwards, proud. I was a killer. I had killed people to exist here. I was a werewolf and I chose to be bound by no pack. I was Tommi Grayson, lover of art and booze. I was Scottish and I was Maori. Both of my parents were dead and it was only me who could define myself. I was aware of who ‘she’ was, even if I was uncomfortable with some of the things I had done and some of the things I could do.

‘Good,’ Chester said. I frowned, thinking not for the first time that he may be able to read my thoughts. ‘Now throw away the notion of ever being one of your clan. You may be their blood but you lack the heritage, you lack the years of cultural understanding. No matter how many books you read, you’re never going to be able to make up for that.’

‘I … I know. But what else can I do?’

‘Be informed. That is all. Your spiritual ties are severed and they’re not the kind of thing that can be sewn back together. Believe me, I know.’

‘Huh.’

‘You need to become comfortable with being removed, with being other.’

I smiled, thinking about just how ‘other’ I was. ‘Alright, I don’t think that will be too hard.’

‘Now you need to forgive your mother.’

I repressed a growl. ‘You’re not my shrink.’

‘No, but I am right.’

‘She lied to me, for years. More than that, she let me believe I was the product of a rape.’

‘And what was the alternative?’ asked Chester. ‘Tell you the truth? What would have been more horrific for a child to hear, the lie or the fact that you’re a werewolf?’

My instincts were so sharp after weeks of training and transformation with Lorcan that I was on my feet and poised for a fight in less than a second. One of several weapons I had now taken to carrying with me always – in this case, a Scipio dagger – was resting comfortably in my hand with the pointy end towards my target. I liked Chester, I didn’t want to hurt him, which is why I had positioned myself in front of the exit. I’d run rather than hurt him if I could, but if he was truly a danger to me I would do what needed to be done. I felt the wolf stir deep down inside me as adrenaline coursed through my veins.

‘Okay, no more Mister Nice Old Man. Who the hell are you? Are you Askari?’

Chester blinked at me, seemingly undisturbed by my reaction or the fact that I was armed. Most telling of all, he appeared totally cool about the fact he was chatting to a werewolf. ‘You didn’t answer the question, Tommi. She was trying to protect you.’

‘And to do that she –’

‘Oh, boo hoo hoo. Get over it. You’re not, are you? You’re something else altogether. Your mother is dead; you being mad at her for trying to protect you from being claimed by a pack of werewolves is not going to get you anywhere. If you were in her shoes, tell me, what would you have done? What else would have ensured her inquisitive daughter didn’t go probing?’

The tension was thick between us as I tried to focus on his words and any sudden movements he might make.

‘Who. Are. You?’ I growled through gritted teeth.

He batted a hand at me in a flippant gesture. ‘Don’t be mad at me, little werewolf girl. If anyone is mad it should be me but I got over that in the first five minutes. Sending a kathurungi to my door, ha!’

‘Sent? Nobody sent me,’ I hissed.

His dark eyes fixed on me and his mouth twitched with a smile. ‘Didn’t they?’

‘No! And enough with the freakin’ riddles and questions within questions, Yoda. It was pure coincidence I ended up here.’

‘At this exact time in your life, when you needed answers the most? Sounds like fate. Sounds like someone is pulling your strings.’

I was about ready to stab him out of irritation and seconds away from telling him just that when he broke in.

‘I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

The hairs on my arms stood up. ‘What are you?’

‘You were closer the first time. It’s who I am not what I am that should interest you.’

‘Who are you then?’

‘Chester Rangi,’ he grinned.

‘ARGH! I give up!’ I shouted, spinning on my heels and storming out of the cottage in a blur of motion while his laughter followed behind me down the pathway and echoed off the walls of the alley.

I’d left the books, I’d left my tea, I’d left answers in a bid to be free of the spider web of his words. Although I had decided the old man wasn’t an immediate threat to me, my instincts told me he was dangerous. He knew impossible things. He knew about me. A telepath seemed like the only answer but as I walked back to the guest house I felt eyes on me. Someone or something thing was watching me. Yes, Chester Rangi was definitely more. Chester Rangi was other.

I picked up the pace and didn’t fully relax until I was inside and pressed against the door of my room. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and contemplated leaving town tonight. And go where? Drive right through to London at night and hop on the next plane to Berlin like I was originally supposed to do? If Chester was truly dangerous, I would be dead by now. No one knew I was here besides a few locals who could be taken care of easily enough and he had plenty of opportunities. Instead he had not only helped me – loaned me books, prodded me in the right direction – he’d made me lunch. These were not the actions of someone readying to kill you. He was amused by me, I realised, and for whatever reason this had bought me some kind of leeway that was dangerously close to expiring. Tracking be damned, I turned on my phone and dialled Joss.

‘It lives,’ croaked a voice from the other end of the phone.

‘And you?’ I asked. My heart dropped at the hollow sound of his voice.

He laughed lightly. ‘I live.’

‘The important question, Joss, is do you live large?’

‘Aye, I’m living large.’

‘All up and down the halls of the oncology ward, I bet.’

‘Speaking of large, you should see the games room they’ve added here. PlayStation, Xbox, air hockey, it’s lush.’

‘That will keep you occupied. But seriously, the trip was okay?’

‘Yeah, you should have seen the hot paramedic I had. She was fit. She even came back to visit this morning. I think she wants me.’

‘Totally,’ I replied with a mock serious tone.

‘Where are you?’

‘Umm …’ I peered out from behind the blinds of my room and looked down at the empty street below.

‘Tommi?’

‘I’m not technically in Berlin yet.’

‘What? I thought you were flying out the day after me? Are you trying to swim here?’

I chuckled. ‘No, you N.E.D. I’m just taking a few days.’

‘I bet. Probably takes a few days to farewell Lorcan with sex from dusk to da–’

‘JOSS. No.’ As far as my best friend knew, Lorcan was staying behind in Dundee and continuing on with his life since – despite what Joss thought – we definitely were 100 per cent not dating. There was no way I would be able to explain away Lorcan being in Berlin with me. It would be too … weird. I cleared my throat and ignored the laughter at the other end of the line.

‘I’m actually in Wigtown, and there’s zero sex involved, I’ll have you know.’

‘Wigtown? Really?’

‘Word.’

‘What are you doing there?’

‘Taking a few days to myself.’

I could almost hear him nodding through the phone. ‘Are you alright? I’d say I don’t know if being by yourself after Mari and Kane is the best thing but –’

‘I’m a lone wolf?’ I supplied.

He howled down the phone at me and paused to address a coughing fit.

‘Dude, don’t die for the sake of a pun – breathe – that’s it. Take a sip of water and settle it down,’ I urged. I heard his breathing steady and I felt a surge of relief wash over me. ‘That better? You okay?’

‘Ergh, yeah. Shit’s moving fast this time – I’m wheezing like an old man.’

‘Don’t say that. And speaking of, I actually met the weirdest old man here. You would hate him. He speaks in riddles.’

‘Like Mr Miyagi?’

‘Nailed it.’

‘Sounds like a bawbag. In all seriousness though, when are you getting here?’

I thought about it carefully. I couldn’t risk staying in Wigtown much longer now that Chester knew what I was. It was also clear my best friend needed me and he was one of the only things I had left. To add to that list, I was expected by the Rogues.

‘Tomorrow,’ I replied at last. ‘Tomorrow night. I’ll come see you the next day. When are visiting hours?’

‘I put you down as family with Ma and Pa so you can come anytime.’

‘Clever boy. Do you want me to bring anything?’

‘I can’t think of anything. You always find stuff I didn’t know I needed though.’

True. I was already thinking of grabbing Joss the first few volumes of The Boys and a She-Hulk single issue from the comic book store in town. ‘Done.’

‘So I’ll see you in a bit?’

‘I’ll see you in a bit,’ I replied, before hanging up.

I tossed and turned that night, mulling over the risks and the realities before resolving to visit Chester again in the morning – one last time. He had been . . .