Page 1 of Tempting Shadowed Hearts
I’ve dedicated the majority of my long life to protecting those who can’t protect themselves, hunting the monsters who take advantage of the innocent—those human and… not. I guess the reason I’m so good at what I do is that I’m not much better than they are; it takes a monster to know a monster. The difference between them and me is that I only target the innocent when I have no choice or when I lose control of myself. In those cases, I’ve thanked my lucky stars that I am what I am and can blend into any crowd without rousing suspicion.
You’re probably wondering how I accomplish this. What I am. Well, my kind has been called many things over the years:
Shape shifter.
Changeling.
Doppelgänger.
Imposter.
Mimic.
Skin walker.
None of these names are wrong, per se, but skinwalker is the one I hate the most. It’s the one monstrous name that sparksfear in far too many people, especially those in the Appalachian region. That name is the reason I’m so cautious about who sees what I’m capable of.
Most people consider us shapeshifters. While we are shapeshifters of a sort, we don’t turn into animals like ordinary shifters; we turn into other people.
The most common—and, in my opinion, accurate—names we’re given are doppelgänger and mimic. Those of us who are good at what we do are able to look nearly identical to our intended person.
The only feature of my own I can’t seem to part with when I change is a lone freckle on my cheekbone. My mother used to refer to it as a beauty mark. Although it’s small, it’s still there and can affect my desired image, clashing with the features I’m trying to imitate. Most of the time, it isn’t a problem, though. I’ve worked hard over the years to hone my features with each change, but it doesn’t matter who I try to become; that damn thing is still there. Other than that minute detail, I’m one of the best of my kind, hence why I’ve lived so long and am in such high demand in my field.
Now I’m sure you’re wondering how old I am. Let’s just say that I’ve walked this earth for centuries. I’ve traveled all over—seen every sight there is to see in this world—and I’m getting tired.
Tired of the same sights that I’ve seen hundreds of times.
Tired of doing the same thing over and over because there’s nothing else for me to do.
Tired of beingalone.Because that’s how I’ve spent the majority of the last several centuries.
When I was young, someone murdered my parents, and none of my family really wanted to deal with me, so they passed me around like a sack of potatoes. After a few years, they all starteddying out of nowhere, one by one. The only person left for me to live with in the end was my uncle.
At that point, I was about fifteen and had become used to bouncing from house to house. The idea of no longer having to do so was a relief, but things didn’t stay that way for long. For the first month, and in the presence of others, he was the nicest man in the world. He bought me everything I could ever want, made sure I was well taken care of, and treated me like the daughter he never had.
After that first month, he became the monster I still have nightmares about. It started with hugs and touches that were more intimate than they should’ve been. Then, he started picking out the clothes I was to wear, choosing things that revealed more skin than I was comfortable with. When I told him how I felt, he backhanded me and told me I was lucky he even took me in..
It wasn’t long after that when he came into my bedroom and started touching me. He told me he ‘wanted to make me feel good.’ I tried to fight him, but eventually he tied me down and forced himself upon me. The entire time, he laughed and told me he was going to ‘ruin me for all other men’ and was making me his forever because no man wanted a woman who’d allowed another man to touch her. I screamed until my throat was raw, but no one helped me.
This became a near-nightly occurrence for the rest of the time I lived with him.
After a few months, I started getting sick out of nowhere. I thought nothing of it at first; there was always some sort of sickness going around, and back then, we didn’t know much about them. But when I missed my period, I knew something was going on. I monitored my symptoms for nearly a month before I asked a neighbor to take me to the doctor. After an examination and some now considered odd urine tests, they toldme I was pregnant, and I cried the entire way home. Thankfully, my neighbor didn’t ask questions.
Month by month flew by, and even with my belly and breasts growing, my uncle didn’t realize anything was different. I was grateful because I had no clue what I was going to do. I didn’t want to bring a child into his home, but the doctor told me my baby would be arriving soon.
Boy, was he right, just in the worst way possible. One morning, I woke up in immense pain. At the time, I wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but when I got out of bed, I felt an unfamiliar slickness between my legs, so I hurried to the bathroom. Once in the light, I nearly dropped to the floor. Blood was running freely down my legs while pain like no other wrapped around my belly into my back.
My heart sank.
Something was very wrong.
When the pain subsided the first time, I did my best to clean up the mess on the floor. Then another rush of pain engulfed me, and I had to clench my teeth to avoid screaming. The last thing I wanted was for my uncle to know what was happening to me.
Of course, we didn’t have phones back then, so I couldn’t call anyone, but I knew I had to get checked out. I wasn’t sure how I managed to get dressed and make it to my neighbor’s house; I just knew I had to do it for my baby. My neighbor rushed me to the doctor, avoiding my uncle per my request, all while trying to keep her face stoic so she wouldn’t scare me. Deep down, I knew the odds weren’t good.
My baby—a little girl I would’ve done anything to keep, no matter the circumstances of her conception—died in my arms a few hours later. I wished I’d died alongside her. If it weren’t for what I am, I would’ve because of all the blood I lost. But I didn’t. I knew it was for the best that she didn’t make it; it just didn’t make it any easier. I just knew that the life I was forced tolive wasn’t suitable for a baby, especially since I was still a child myself.
When I returned home that evening, my uncle was livid because I hadn’t told him where I was going. He forced me back to my room, intent on locking me in there as a punishment, but then he discovered the blood in my bed and punished me for ruining it.
