Page 3 of Shadowed Whispers

As I approach my Jeep, a glint of white under the windshield wiper catches my eye. I initially dismiss it as another parking ticket, a reminder of my nomadic existence, before I pull it free with a sigh. As the bold letterhead catches my attention, my breath hitches—Shadow Locke University.

The silence in the alleyway feels even more profound as the shadows momentarily freeze around me. The letter feels heavy in my hands, a tangible link to a world so different from the dark corners I’ve inhabited.

Francesca Vale,

On behalf of Shadow Locke University, I am thrilled to extend to you an offer of admission to the Bachelor of Science program in cybersecurity for the upcoming fall semester…

My mind races back to the girl I once was, who was full of dreams and untouched by shadows. Could this be a path back to her? Or perhaps a way forward, to meld my dark gifts with something like a normal life?

I only have a GED, obtained in a blur of determination just a month ago. Could I dare to hope for more?

With my wolves by my side, I look down at the letter again, my decision already forming.

“I bet there are a lot of very naughty frat boys,” I muse aloud, a smirk playing on my lips despite the weight of the decision. “Who’s ready for a road trip?”

Chapter 1

Frankie

2 Years Later

“You can’t stay here,” the voice yells in my ear. The abrasive timbre grates on my nerves like sandpaper against raw skin. “Did you hear me, Frankie?” This time, the voice comes with a poke to my kidney, sharp and intrusive. “Get the fuck up and get out.”

“Fucking hell, Marcus.” I swat his hand away before he can touch me again, my hand trembling with a mix of anger and a haunting familiarity that I refuse to acknowledge. I’ve dreamed of breaking his fingers, not just for my peace but for every silent plea I’ve witnessed in this place. I hold back, reminding myself that I’m working on self-control and not becoming the monster he embodies. The air between us crackles with my restrained fury. “I’m up. I’m up.”

“From here, it looks like you aren’t up.” His voice is part sneer, part nails on a chalkboard, but equal parts vindictive. He’s only waking me up and forcing me out because summer is ending, and he’s sick of me.

That makes the two of us, Marcus.

Ever so slowly, I sit up, the room spinning slightly—a reminder of last night’s attempts to forget. Each movement feels heavy from the weight of countless nights spent under this roof, returning each summer as a silent guardian against the darkness Marcus represents. The shelter’s couch, my temporary bed, groans under my weight, its threadbare fabric telling the stories of those who sought refuge here before me. The sour scent of old sweat and faded fears lingers in its fibers.

“Are you hungover?” he asks, his tone laced with faux concern that couldn’t sound more insincere if he tried. I can almost visualize his eyebrows raised in mock sympathy.

“No.” Yes. I rub my eyes, feeling the sharp pinch in my gut telling me I need to find some food soon. The grit of sleep crusts the corners of my eyes, adding to the uncomfortable dryness.

“You smell like whiskey and bad decisions,” he remarks, his voice dripping with disdain.

I feel like it too.

I finally look up at the asshole who runs this run-down women’s shelter—a place that smells of despair and disinfectant, where hope seems to die before it can even begin to sprout. One would think that a woman would run the women’s shelter, but no, some person made the conscious decision to put this bottom-feeder in charge. The only reason I sleep on this stupid couch every summer is because I know what kind of person he is—the worst kind, and kids stay here.

Three summers ago, when I spent my first night here, I overheard him in the hallway, his voice slick with malice as he cornered someone vulnerable. No one believed her. They said it was her word against his, but I believed because I saw the fear that doesn’t lie. Since then, I return every summer, not for shelter, but as a watchdog in the shadows. Maybe I can’t expose him, but I can be a deterrent, a silent protector. It’s a role I embrace—a purpose found in the darkness.

If I could, I’d kill him. I’d feel no remorse or regret. In fact, as I stare at his pudgy face and his cold, dark eyes, I imagine him lying on a cold slab in the morgue, the life gone from his gaze.

He doesn’t deserve to live, and yet, I can’t kill him.

“Go away, Marcus.” I glance away, only to pull my backpack from between the couch cushions where I tucked it. All my belongings are in this little backpack. Usually, while staying here, I’ll leave it in a locker at the local rec center. Last night, I couldn’t because I got out of work too late.

“No, I’m here to see you out.” He crosses his arms, the fabric of his cheap suit stretching over his bulky frame. I’m sure he thinks it makes him look intimidating, but it doesn’t. All it succeeds in doing is making him look like a hairy bobblehead. “Orders are coming from the state.”

If I had a dollar for every time I heard that bullshit.

“What time is it?” I run a hand down my face, feeling grimy and in need of a shower. The sticky residue of last night’s forgetfulness clings to my skin, urging me to wash away the memories along with the dirt.

“Seven,” he says smugly.

Four hours of sleep. Well, it’s longer than what I’m used to. I’ll just nap in my car later. “Go away, Marcus.” I rub the kinks from my neck. This couch is shit, but I sleep here because it’s the first room in the women’s shelter.

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