The Keeping

  THE KEEPING

  By

  Nicky Charles

  FEEDBOOKS EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Nicky Charles on Feedbooks

  The Keeping

  Copyright © 2010 by Nicky Charles

  Other works by this author:

  Forever In Time

  The Mating

  Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews.

  Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Adult Reading Material

  *****

  Many thanks to Jan Gordon who acted as my editor and tirelessly read, reread, advised, poked, and prodded until this project was complete. Also, thank you to Ermintrude for her invaluable advice on locations and journalism. Finally, thanks to all of the ‘Gutter Girls' and my readers at FictionPress who have offered their feedback, encouragement and allowed me to practise my writing skills on them.

  This book is a sequel to The Mating, my first werewolf story. Many people became enamoured with the characters in that book and kept asking what happened to them. Ryne especially seemed to capture readers’ imaginations and so, in response to those many requests, this tale was written. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  *****

  Prologue

  Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

  The room was silent, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood majestically near the doorway and the faint sounds of the old man’s breathing. To look at him, one might wonder if he was alive or only a wax figure; his eyes were unblinking and the rise and fall of his chest were barely perceptible. His gnarled hands rested lightly on the arms of the chair in which he sat, their occasional tightening the only real sign of the emotion he was feeling.

  Pale winter sunlight, so typical of early January, was valiantly trying to brighten the large, cluttered room. Its weak rays crept past the heavy velvet curtains and cast a beam across the floor, creating a bright swatch in the otherwise gloomy interior. Small specks of dust drifted lazily on the faint air currents before settling on the laden surfaces of the tables and shelves.

  Sculptures, figurines, and books, covered every flat inch of the room. Similarly, artwork filled the dark panelled walls, yet the gentleman in the chair still deemed his collection to be paltry and inadequate. Or, at least he’d felt that way until now. Years of searching and gathering everything related to his favourite theme had finally paid off.

  The faintest movement near the corners of his mouth would let an astute observer know he was pleased. Over the fireplace mantel hung his latest acquisition. Studying it with care, his gaze traced over the subject matter, analyzing and assessing. A quiet grunt and a slight movement of his head was the only acknowledgement he gave that here was what he had spent his whole life looking for.

  “That will be all, Franklin.” His voice was deep and strong despite his years, instantly commanding respect and obedience.

  A man, dressed in the formal garb of a butler, stepped out of the shadows that clung to the edges of the room and bowed at the waist. “Yes, Mr. Greyson. If you need anything else, just ring.” Silently, the servant picked up the step ladder he had used to hang the picture and left the room, quietly shutting the heavy mahogany door behind him.

  As Franklin’s footsteps faded into the distance, the older man stood and advanced towards the fireplace. His steps were sure, his stride long—no decrepit shuffling for him, despite his years and the aching of his joints. Clasping his hands behind his ramrod straight back, he stood in front of the framed photo.

  Excitement was bubbling inside him, though his calm countenance gave no sign. This was what he’d been searching for. Everything else in the room was now worthless; his priceless statues, the expensive glossy books, paintings by renowned artists; they all paled in comparison to this one piece.

  “Proof.” He whispered to himself, his eyes alight with a fire that had been missing for years. “After all this time, I finally have proof.” Reaching out his hand, he traced the name scrawled in the corner of the picture matte. “Whoever you are, Ryne Taylor, you’ve made me a very happy man.”

  After those few words, he fell silent again, contemplating the subject matter of the picture. He’d acquired it two months ago and had spent the intervening time examining it, studying angles, looking for shadows, measuring length and distance, pouring over minute details with a magnifying glass. There was no refuting what he’d found. Now the amber eyes in the photo glared at him, challenging and arrogant, almost as if they knew his plan and were daring him to try and execute it.

  Eventually the man looked away, staring at the thick carpeting beneath his feet. A dry chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I can’t hold your gaze. You’re not even here, and still you manage to be dominant.” Shaking his head, he made his way back to his chair and sat down heavily. Picking up the phone, he dialled a familiar number, and then waited impatiently for someone to answer, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. When the call was finally answered, he wasted no time on pleasantries.

  “Greyson here. I need to talk to you, Aldrich … What about?” He gave a short bark of laughter while looking up at the picture again. “A wolf, of course.”

  *****

  Stump River, Ontario, Canada — 700 miles Northeast of Chicago

  Ryne wiped his hands on a greasy rag and pulled down on the hood of the aging pick-up truck. He sauntered to the far side of the garage and pitched the filthy rag in the garbage. “Filter’s changed, Ben. Anything else?”

  Ben Miller looked up from the service desk, where he was totalling the work orders. “Nope. That’s it for the day. Thanks for coming in to help.”

  “No problem. I can use the extra cash. That money pit I bought wants new plumbing.”

  Ben rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated the man before him. Not for the first time, did he wonder why a young fellow like Ryne Taylor would choose to live in a god-forsaken place like Stump River. Not that Ben didn’t like his hometown, but he was aware of its limitations. No night life except for the local bar and Wednesday night bingo at the church. A two-hour drive to the next largest community. Young people left Stump River, they didn’t move here.

  Mind you, George and Mary Nelson were mighty happy that Taylor was bucking the trend. He had bought their crumbling house and the large parcel of land it sat on. There hadn’t even been any quibbling over the cost; he’d paid the asking price without batting an eye. The sale had provided the town with nice bit of gossip to help pass the winter, as well as allowing the elderly Nelsons to retire to Timmins, a larger urban centre, in relative luxury. Ben looked around his small business and smirked. Maybe Taylor would buy his place, too, should he ever decide to retire.

  Watching Ryne get cleaned up at the nearby sink, Ben couldn’t help but feel a touch of envy. All the local ladies positively drooled when Ryne was in town. Even his own wife wasn’t immune. Ben had unwillingly eavesdropped on her conversation with a friend just last night and had almost felt a tad inadequate after listening to them go on about his black hair, blue eyes and ‘devilishly sexy smile’—their words, not his, of course. When they’d started to enumerate his physical attributes—broad shoulders, long legs, lean hips, and a muscular body—he’d turned the TV on real loud to drown them out.

  Ben shook his h
ead. All he saw, when he looked at Ryne, was a hard-working, confident man who knew his way around an engine. That was enough in his books. Ryne helped him out at the garage a few days each week and Ben was grateful for the assistance.

  “Got any plans for the weekend?” Ryne had dried off and walked over to where Ben was working. He leaned against the counter and chugged down a bottle of water.

  “The wife and daughter want me to take them into Timmins shopping. We might go to a show while we’re there, too.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Ryne wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and threw the bottle into the recycling bin. “I’m going to be working on the house as usual.”

  “It was a big project you undertook, when you bought the place.”

  “I know, but I like the area, and it came with a lot of land. My friends and I like our privacy.”

  “To each their own.” Ben shrugged and handed Ryne a check. “Here’s your pay. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  Ryne laughed while stuffing the cheque in his pocket. “Nah. I’ll spread it around. Some at the hardware store and some at the bar.”

  “Lucy will be happy to see you, I’m sure.” Ben mocked him good-naturedly as he walked out the door. Ryne merely waved and continued on his way. Lucy worked at the local bar and had been real friendly with Ryne ever since he and his friends had moved to the area a few months back.

  Watching Ryne cross the street, Ben wondered about the man and the two other fellows, Bryan and Daniel, who lived with him. They weren’t related, looking nothing alike, but something bound them together. At first, there’d been rumours that they were gay, but their behaviour at the bar on Friday nights soon dispelled that rumour. The local lovelies swarmed around them and they did little to discourage the attention, especially the younger two.

  Ryne was a bit more discriminating. Oh, he’d been involved with a few of the local girls, before settling on just Lucy, but for the most part, he held his liquor and was usually the one dragging the other two home at closing time, provided they hadn’t hooked up with some female beforehand. Ben chuckled. Business at the bar was a lot brisker since the three had moved into the community.

  A few residents thought the newcomers were a bit strange, but except for the fact that they all lived together in the middle of nowhere, no one had any real complaints against them. The men were polite and didn’t bother anyone. Most likely, it was as Ryne said; they’d moved here for privacy and because they liked the area. Nothing strange or mysterious about that.

  Chapter 1

  Oregon, U.S.A.

  Damn! There was a certain sick feeling in Mel’s stomach as she lost control of the vehicle and it began to slide across the snow-slicked roads into the oncoming lane. A horn blared as she narrowly missed a pick-up truck but that relief was short lived as a telephone post loomed ahead. She clenched the steering wheel tighter, trying to steer into the skid; muscles tensed as she braced herself against the impact that was sure to come. When it didn’t, she sent up a brief prayer of thanks.

  “Stupid, snow covered roads.” Muttering to herself, she felt the car straighten out of the skid, wincing as the vehicle narrowly missed a farmer’s mailbox. Moving back into her own lane, she blew a puff of air up over her face causing her bangs to float up and then settle on her forehead again. Annoyingly, her long lashes kept catching in the too-long fringe of hair—she really needed to make time for a cut, she reminded herself—but she didn’t dare take her hands off the wheel to push her hair out of the way. Blinking rapidly, she managed to free her lashes and clear her vision.

  The forecast had called for light snow, but the weatherman was obviously an idiot and didn’t know a high pressure zone from a low. Heavy white flakes were falling on her windshield and the wipers were having a hard time keeping up. Twice now, she’d stopped and wiped the accumulated white stuff from the blades. She shouldn’t have trusted the fellow at the rental agency when he said the car was fine, but at ten o'clock at night, after a long flight squished between a large man and a frazzled mother with a crying baby, all she had wanted to do was get a car, escape the confines of the airport and find a room at the nearby motel. Now, she wished she’d been a bit more particular.

  A road sign proclaimed that her destination, Smythston, Oregon, was rapidly approaching and she allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. She’d had a late start, being up half the night listening to planes land and take off and now her two hour trip had turned into four hours of white knuckle driving. She couldn’t wait to get to the bed and breakfast where she’d booked a room. A hot shower and dinner, followed by a nap were going to be her reward for surviving this trip.

  In the brochure that lay on the seat beside her, The Grey Goose Tea Room sounded quaint and boasted luxury rooms with home cooked meals. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and she knew that even if the place was no better than a mom and pop greasy spoon, she’d devour whatever they had to offer. Her stomach was telling her it was long past feeding time. She glared at the snow that was messing up her schedule, all the while hoping her room was still available once she finally arrived at her destination. An oncoming transport trailer uncaringly doused her car in slush and Mel swore vigorously as her view of the road disappeared.

  Quickly flicking the wipers onto high, she peered out of the streaked windshield and wondered once again at the sanity of taking on this particular job. It was a ridiculous assignment, but paid well, and since she was next thing to being broke, she couldn’t be too choosy.

  After years of working dead-end retail jobs, she’d finally gone back to school, earned her high school diploma, and then enrolled in the journalism program at Northwestern University. It wasn’t the most practical course, her guidance counsellors had pointed out. If she was looking for a secure career, computers were the way to go. She’d thanked them kindly for the advice, but knew she’d never be able to sit in an office all day, every day. Being in one place too long didn’t suit her—she had ‘itchy feet’ just like her mother, which was probably why she’d constantly drifted from one job to another. After the initial thrill of learning a new skill wore off, she soon lost interest and found herself searching the want ads for yet another new position.

  At least, once she was a journalist, an employer would pay for her to move around. It wasn’t a great wage, but it was something she enjoyed, and helped lessen the restlessness within her. Talking to people, visiting new locations, researching backgrounds; each day would be different or at least that’s what she hoped. Right now, she was taking a year off, being half way through the four year program and completely out of funds. By juggling two waitressing jobs and writing a few freelance articles, she was hoping to make enough money to go back to school next year and finish the program.

  That was why this job was exactly what she needed. A lawyer, named Leon Aldrich, had contacted her on behalf of a client—a wealthy client, no less—to do some work as an investigative journalist. Mel had been a bit surprised to be contacted by the man, wondering how he’d come by her name. Mr. Aldrich claimed one of her college instructors had passed her name along and Mel had hesitantly accepted the explanation. It was against college rules to show favouritism, and Mel was curious as to who had put in the good word for her. The lawyer had merely smirked at her, saying she had been chosen from a number of other candidates. He added it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not quite sure what to make of the man, Mel had shrugged and listened to his offer. She needed the money and couldn’t afford to be too choosy.

  The man had presented Mel with a lucrative job offer; in exchange for a ridiculously large sum of money, she was to research a photographer named Ryne Taylor and write a piece on his life. It had seemed a bit strange at the time. The photographer in question wasn’t famous or anything, but after thoroughly checking out the lawyer’s references and those of his client, Anthony Greyson, she’d decided the job was legitimate and had agreed to the man’s terms.

  It was pretty simple. Find the
reclusive Mr. Taylor. Research his life, how he chose his subjects, where he took his pictures, and who had purchased them. She was to give updates on each new development to keep them aware of her progress, write a final article, and then submit it back to the lawyer. All expenses would be paid and there was a very loose deadline.

  The job seemed almost too good to be true, but if life was going hand her a golden egg on a silver platter, she wasn’t going to turn her nose up at it. She frowned as she reflected on her phrasing for that last thought. For a journalist, she had certainly slaughtered the use of those clichés. She chuckled, glad her thoughts were her own and not subject to editorial criticism.

  Taking note of her surroundings, she realized that she was now inside the town proper. Fumbling for the brochure at her side, she turned to the section that showed a map on how to find the Grey Goose. Placing it on the steering wheel, she glanced between it and the road while looking for street signs to help orient her.

  A mere fifteen minutes later, she stood in the entryway of the quaint bed and breakfast, talking to a distinguished looking gentleman who had introduced himself as Edward Mancini.

  “Yes, Ms. Greene, I took your reservation over the phone last night. I’m so glad the weather didn’t delay your travel plans.”

  She smiled and brushed her hair out of her face for probably the fiftieth time that day—she really did need to get it cut. “It wasn’t the most pleasant drive, but I made it.”