The Lost Saint by Bree Despain
In loving memory of Mildred Coy Rane.
I don’t know how much you cared for my fantastical stories of werewolves and demon hunters, but you were always supportive and proud.
I miss you daily.
Your granddaughter,
Bree
Consequence
“Do what he wants, and you might survive,” a harsh voice said into the boy’s ear before he felt a sharp blow to the kidneys. He fell forward onto the concrete, his arms splayed out in front of him.
“So this is the one who tried to get away?” another voice asked from the shadows. It was a deeper, older, more guttural voice. Almost like a growl. “This isn’t a clubhouse, boy. You can’t just decide to stop playing and go home.”
The boy coughed. Bloodstained saliva dribbled from his mouth. “I wasn’t … I didn’t …” He tried to push himself up onto his knees, but a kick from behind sent him sprawling forward again on the ground. His mind raced, replaying what he’d done to get himself to this place.
This place.
They’d said he could call this place home. They’d said they were his friends. They’d called him their brother.
And that was all it took. That was all he’d wanted.
But this place wasn’t home.…
“You belong to me,” the man said as he stepped out of the shadowed alcove. “And that’s why you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
This place was a prison. And these people were not his family.…
The man the others called Father towered over the boy, glaring down at him with glowing, yellow, murderous eyes. “Tell me!” the man roared, and slammed his booted foot down on the ring on the boy’s extended hand, grinding into it with his heel.
The boy screamed—but not because of the searing pain he felt as the fragments of the ring sliced into his flesh, and his tendons ripped away from the splintering bones in his fingers. He screamed because he knew that for what he’d done, everyone he’d ever loved, everything he’d left behind, was going to die.
CHAPTER ONE
The Sky Is Falling
THURSDAY NIGHT, SESSION #82
“You can do this, Grace,” Daniel said between sharp breaths. “You know you can.”
“I’m trying.” My fingers trembled as I tightened them into fists.
It was the pain of the transition that always surprised me—no matter how prepared I thought I was. It started as an aching sensation deep inside my body. Pooling in my muscles, making my shoulders shake and my legs throb. My biceps felt like they were on fire.
“Come on, Grace. Don’t quit on me now.”
“Shut up!” I said, and took another swing.
Daniel laughed and countered to the left. My blow missed his mitt entirely.
“Agh!” I stumbled forward, but Daniel caught me before I fell and pushed me back up. I gritted my teeth and rocked back on my heels in the grass. I was supposed to be more agile than this. “Stop moving around.”
“Your opponent”—Daniel panted—“isn’t going to stand still and just let you hit him.” He held his boxing mitts out in front of him, welcoming a new attack.
“He would if he knew what was good for him.” I jutted forward with a combination of a hook and a jab, which Daniel deflected with his mitts. He spun out of my way, and my next swing went wildly into the air.
“Gah.” I shook my head. My moonstone necklace bounced against my chest. It felt warm against my already flushed skin, pulsing with heat.
“You’re pushing your punches too much. Save your energy. Quick jabs. Send your arm out with a snap and then bring it back immediately.”