(Dis)content (Judgement of the Six Book 5)

  (Dis)content

  Melissa Haag

  (Dis)content

  Copyright: Melissa Haag

  Published: November 24, 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-943051-90-8

  Cover Design: Indie-Spired Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without express written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  (Dis)content

  I hate. I thought I hated before the letter, before the werewolves, but now I understand that was nothing more than a chip on my shoulder. The urbat took what was mine. And they will pay.

  Isabelle leads a very normal life...for an emotional siphon. If not for Ethan and his bar, she would have lost her sanity long ago. But everything changes with the crash of her fighting cage and a man who transforms into a wolf. There’s something about Carlos—when he’s not growling at her—that makes her do things she wouldn’t normally do, like sigh and daydream.

  Attraction aside, she is faced with the very real evidence that werewolves and urbat exist, and the urbat are after her. And the only way she can keep Ethan safe is to join with the werewolves and Carlos. It’s a race against time to stop a war, fight for love, and find the last Judgement.

  Prologue

  I thrust the key into the lock and shoved open the door for the apartment building. My skin felt too tight from all the crap I’d dealt with at the office. I should have quit like Ethan had said. Who cared if I spent my life tending bar? It would be easier, especially with the setup Ethan had.

  Stopping in the entry, I checked my mailbox.

  “Hi, Isabelle.”

  The sound of my downstairs neighbor’s voice just added to my bad mood. My skin grew tighter with the waves of annoyance that rolled off him and soaked into me.

  As a rule, I didn’t socialize with anyone in my building. It didn’t seem right trying to be friends with any of them. After all, I robbed them of any negative emotion they might have, so they didn’t have a choice but to like me.

  Quickly grabbing my mail, I turned to give the man a tight smile and fled before he could pull me into a friendly conversation.

  As a child, I’d always wanted friends. When Ethan came along and seemed to understand me better than anyone else ever had, I gave up on having friends and settled for having a friend. Singular. Ethan was enough.

  I trudged up the stairs to the second floor, opened my apartment, and stepped inside with a sigh. My eyes fell on the bag hanging from the special support the landlord had installed for me. I wanted nothing more than to start hitting it but knew once I started, I wouldn’t stop until I drained everything. First mail, then change, and then dinner. After that, I could have at it.

  Kicking off my flats, I sorted through the mail while walking to the kitchen. I didn’t need to pay attention to where I was going. My apartment wasn’t that big. The living room and kitchen flowed together with a tiny island separating them. The living room had my bag dangling from the ceiling and that was it. My bedroom had a TV, bed, and dresser. I didn’t need much.

  I stopped mid-sort and stared at an envelope with a handwritten address. No return address. No postage. Weird.

  I threw the bills to the side and set the envelope on the counter. The bills I’d write out later. The envelope had me curious, though. I would open it while I waited for food. The freezer had a nice selection of dinners waiting for me. I grabbed one at random and threw it into the microwave. As I listened to the hum of my dinner cooking, I tore open the envelope and pulled out a handwritten letter.

  No matter how I write this, you won’t believe it. All I ask is that you don’t throw this away. Just consider it.

  There are people looking for you. People who look human but aren’t. They know what you can do. They must not find you. If they do, they will hurt us both, and so many more.

  Don’t trust anyone. Run. Stay hidden. Our time’s almost up.

  I turned it over and glanced at the blank back. There was no greeting and no closing. Just an unsigned note. My eyes fell on the one sentence that truly concerned me.

  “They know what you can do,” I murmured.

  The microwave beeped, drawing my attention from the letter to the tension tingling under my skin.

  I used a magnet to stick the letter to the refrigerator and drifted to my room to change. Dressed in spandex shorts and a tight exercise tank top, I padded out to the living room and ignored the cooling dinner that waited for me. I slipped on my gloves to protect my knuckles and started exercising my demons.

  The idea that someone might know about me didn’t scare me. I found it amusing. No one really knew but Ethan. Even my parents didn’t know, though they did have their own ideas about me; how could they not after raising me? But their suspicions weren’t close. They thought I exuded positive energy. I’d like to blame their hippie thoughts on their habits in the ‘60s and ‘70s, but they weren’t that old. The reality of what I did wasn’t that I released positive anything. It was the exact opposite.

  I mostly siphoned negative emotions. But if I wanted, I could pull the positive ones, too. I felt what the people around me felt. Like sampling ice cream, their emotions had different flavors, letting me know their moods. Unfortunately, the siphoning wasn’t voluntary. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t completely turn it off. But, boy, could I turn it on. If I wanted, I could drain a room in two heartbeats. Taking away all that negativity made the people around me happy, but it did the opposite for me. The more I siphoned, the less I felt like myself. I grew agitated, angry even. The more I absorbed, the more my skin tingled, until it felt painfully tight. The only thing that helped relieve it was physical activity.

  I hit the bag, timing the backswing, and set a grueling rhythm. Who would even think someone could do what I could do? And, if they did, why would they come after me? Idiots. I’d leave them on the floor with a gap-toothed smile.

  Good luck to whoever thought they could take me.

  One

  The phone rang before my alarm. Hell hath no fury like a woman woken before her alarm. I fumbled to find the phone in the dark.

  “Hello?” My voice cracked.

  “Hey, Z. This is your reminder to pack your bag. You promised to cover tonight.”

  “Ethan. You are sick to call me this early. I said I’ll be there. Now, leave me alone.” I ended the call without a goodbye.

  The phone rang again before I could drop it back on the nightstand.

  “What?” I answered.

  “I’ve dusted your gloves, babe. You’re overdue.”

  The call disconnected, and I smiled in the dark. Only Ethan, the huge pain in the butt I called friend, could annoy me and make me smile at the same time. He was right. I needed to go in and really purge.

  Hitting the bag at home helped, but I suffered from a slow buildup. Ethan compared it to PMS. I grew moodier until I started an actual fight. Except the fights were never fair. In my anger, I pulled too much of my opponent’s emotions, and they tended to just stand there with a stupid smile as I hit them. But I couldn’t avoid the fights. I needed them. Hitting an actual person drained me way more than the bag, and it was the only thing that helped when I got like this. I hated fighting but didn’t see any other choice.

  With a sigh, I slid from the sheets and shuffled to the bat
hroom. My long, red hair was a tangled mess, and I scowled at myself in the mirror. The green of my eyes seemed vivid against the bloodshot background.

  I should have slept longer. I already felt edgy and knew it would be a long day.

  * * * *

  Many hours later, I parked in front of Ethan’s bar and spar—located in a less than desirable part of town—and leaned my head against the steering wheel. How could a day go so wrong? I cringed remembering how, in a fabulous fury, I’d stormed my boss’ office, told her to shove her petty self-pity, which she’d been radiating all day, up her butt, and then left, slamming doors and pushing coworkers. Not one of my better resignations.

  Ethan had been right; I was overdue.

  Sitting back with a sigh, I started to change. I kicked off my flats and pulled my yoga pants on under my skirt. Someone walked by the car and stopped to stare in as I threw the skirt in the passenger seat. I pulled the curiosity right out of him, and he kept moving. The extra emotions bloated me and didn’t help my mood. Gritting my teeth, I swapped tops, not caring who saw. In a hurry, I pulled on my socks and sneakers. It felt good. I knew what was coming.

  I stepped out of the car, not worrying about the people I sensed in the nearby alleys. They were too busy getting high to notice me as I strode across the street. The emotions of those inside the bar drifted toward me, increasing the tension I carried. With a scowl, I yanked the door open. The warm air pushed past me, lifting my hair slightly. The heavy beat of music beckoned me, but I didn’t pause. I shouldered my way through the bodies that crowded the room and made my way to the bar.

  Ethan stood behind the cheap, laminate counter, filling orders. Tall and lean, he had the attention of most of the women in the room. The tight t-shirt he wore probably helped. He glanced at me as I moved around to the side and ducked under the bar to join him.

  “E-Z!” a regular called out. I ignored him.

  The bar came to life when Ethan and I tended together. We didn’t do it too often, anymore. It called too much attention to me.

  “Damn, girl!” Ethan shouted to be heard. “The more you sit on that thing, the better it gets.”

  I rolled my eyes at him, glad he’d chosen to comment on my butt rather than how early I was. The extra padding I’d acquired by taking up an office job only seemed to want to settle on my butt. It had to be those frozen dinners, I thought. It certainly wasn’t lack of exercise. I’d hit the bag for forty minutes straight last night.

  “Glad you decided to quit yet another job so you could come in early to help. Better start shaking that thing.”

  He just had to go there.

  “Shut up, E.”

  A few of the patrons who sat listening to our exchange laughed.

  “Which one of you idiots wants a drink?” My voice carried over all the noise. Happy faces turned my way. They knew me. They knew how this place would get soon. While they got high, I’d swell with every negative emotion they let loose. Oh, how I hated them.

  “The spit’s free,” I said with a glare. One of the customers had once told me my light green and amber-flecked eyes reminded him of snake eyes when I glared. He’d loved snakes. Of course he had.

  Ethan bumped into me, drawing my attention and breaking my death glare.

  “Don’t be like that. They love you.”

  “Right.”

  He slid the drink he’d just poured across the bar and turned to face me. He arched a brow. Concern softened his light brown eyes. It had been almost two months since I last saw his beautiful face. Despite the rage boiling in me, I smiled at him; and he relaxed a little.

  “You’re going to love them more when you see who I have lined up for you, Miss Moody.”

  Ethan took care of me. He set up the fights, always seeming to know just when I needed them. He was careful, though, about whom he selected. It was a paid gig for the fighters, a flat fee no matter the outcome. It kept the extreme competitors away. They had too much emotion when fighting; and, often, I ended up worse off than when I started. I needed people who let out very little emotion. Not calm people. Cold people. Emotionless. They weren’t always easy to find.

  “Hope it’s better than the last guy.” I slopped some cheap booze into a glass and pushed it at a guy holding out a five. I took the money and slid it into the waistband of my pants.

  Ethan laughed as he stole the money back out and put it in the register. He kept talking as we continued filling drink orders.

  “He’s a brick wall. He fried his brain on home-stewed goods years ago. If he’s got any emotion to steal, it’s nothing you’d want in you.”

  “Sounds interesting. If he doesn’t do it, it’s you and me again, babe.”

  We didn’t fight; it was like we danced, but with fists and kicks.

  With my help, Ethan had learned to block his emotions from me—to a certain degree anyway—at an early age. After all, he was my sparring partner; I couldn’t have him flopping to the ground after two minutes in my presence. When we were younger, he’d radiated so much anger the possibility of draining him had been slim, unless I would have purposely tried to. But as we grew closer, some of his anger had faded. At least, when we were together.

  He grinned at me, winked, then turned to fill the next drink order.

  We worked side by side for an hour. He filled most of the orders while I shouted insults at the patrons. They laughed, Ethan made money, and I struggled to hold myself together.

  “E, if he’s not here soon...” I shoved crumpled bills in the cash drawer.

  Hands settled on my shoulders as I slammed the drawer shut. How many cash registers had I broken that way?

  Ethan spun me away from the register, probably to save it, and planted a kiss on my forehead. Then, he pulled back with a grin and nodded to the stage. I turned to look.

  The floor-to-ceiling chain-link fence had converted the stage into a fight cage. Mats lined the floors to protect anyone slow enough to get knocked down. A bag hung from the ceiling for warm-up; and, on occasion, it provided a place for my opponent to hide from me. A door led to a back hall restricted to employees and my guest fighters.

  As I studied my sanctuary, the door to the cage opened, and a big brick of a man walked onto the mats.

  Cheers erupted in the bar, and he raised his gloved hands over his head. Then, he did a few warm-up jabs.

  Emotions soaked the room, and I could pinpoint where each one stemmed. But very little seeped from the man on the stage. It meant I wouldn’t drain him as I fought. It meant Ethan had found me a real challenge. It meant I’d finally feel some peace.

  I turned back to grin at Ethan.

  “I love you.”

  He laughed.

  “Now you feel love. Wait until after.”

  He swatted my butt as I turned away. The distraction broke the weak hold I had on my control. Emotions flooded me. The elation of the band when the crowd cheered, the lust from the dancers as they bumped and rubbed against each other, and the anticipation from those who turned to face the cage.

  I pushed past people and made my way toward the employee door that opened to a crowded, dirty hall. Ethan’s business wasn’t legitimate enough for a cleaning crew. Which meant it was perfect for me and the fights. With a smile, I turned right and walked toward the door marked “Z’s Play Room.”

  The big man turned when I opened the door, but he didn’t approach. My gloves waited for me on the floor. They were clean and dust free as promised.

  I looked through the cage, across the bar, and met Ethan’s eyes. His smile was gone. He nodded at my opponent as if to say, “Get to it.”

  Tightening my gloves, I turned from Ethan and eyed the fighter with pity. I hated my need to fight. I hated that I would hurt him. I hated that I would never grow close to another person because of the drain I put on them. Most days I hated just about everything.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  The man turned to look at me.

  “He said you would ask. Call me Br
ick.”

  Ethan’s idea of a name, no doubt. I studied the man a moment before stepping closer. Ethan was right. Very little spilled from Brick. I tasted a hint of contentment and nothing more, though the scent of stale cigarettes and old booze hung around him like a cloud. I gave Ethan one last look, then focused on Brick.

  “Tell me when you want to stop.”

  The big man raised his fists and beckoned me.

  All right, then. I swung first, relishing the feel of my shoulder muscles stretching and my stomach tightening. I connected, and a tiny bit of pent-up frustration burst from me like air set free from an overfilled balloon.

  I ducked under his counterswing and swung again. Each time I connected, I released more of the pent-up emotion I’d siphoned. The crowd shouted encouragement to Brick, and their excitement refilled the depleting emotion before I could enjoy any relief. I picked up the pace.

  Jab after jab, Brick stayed with me. He rarely landed a blow, but took plenty. Sweat trickled down my back and beaded on my upper lip. I danced around him, ducking and weaving. I kicked the back of his knee and brought him down but only for a heartbeat. He laughed and surged to his feet with an uppercut that almost connected. A quick twist saved me, and a glint of annoyance flickered in Brick’s eyes. The emotions of the crowd still touched me, but Brick and I were moving fast enough now that I continued to drain myself faster than I could siphon.

  Then, I felt a change in the room. A black hole, a vast, emotional nothingness approached. The unusual phenomenon momentarily distracted me.

  Brick saw an opening and swung. The force behind his jab caused a breeze along my cheek as I dodged to the right. A reminder to stay focused.

  Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling of that black hole and the sudden belief that something really bad was coming my way. Maybe it was the letter still on my fridge. Maybe it was because I was once again jobless. Maybe it was because I knew Ethan planned to talk to me again. Whatever it was, it filled me with dread, an emotion created by me alone.