Center of Attention: Hide in Plain Sight Series-Book 1

By Nancy Beck

For fans of C. E. Murphy's Negotiator series, this is a story of a hidden fantasy world amidst our normal world - where those who are normal know and are scared of these creatures, though the normal world intrudes with the 1929 Stock Market Crash just days away...

Is it possible to stay alive when you're surrounded by the enemy?

Her parents tortured her.

She escaped.

And headed to New York.

Karolina Wokowski dreams of a career on Broadway. In a world where werewolves and other fantastic creatures live quietly next to those who are "normal," Karolina's determination will put her at odds with most in her werewolf clan and some in the supernatural community - because they believe blending in is the best defense against capture and death.

Surviving her parents' brutality, Karolina knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of both mental and physical abuse. She is torn between playing it safe and reaching for the stars.

Can she stay alive to see her dream begin to come true?

• Language: English
• Publisher: March Winds Publishing
• Release date: Aug 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301033607

Nancy Beck

Nancy Beck lives in New Jersey - not down the Shore, not in the urbanized northeastern part of the state, nor in the flatlands of the southern part of the state. No, she lives near Pennsylvania, and sometimes wishes she was already there. She has one fantasy series under her belt (Haven New Jersey) and a mini short story collection. She is currently working on the first in a new series, something she's wanted to write for some time. Please visit her website for any updates. And she hopes you enjoy the fiction she writes - that is the number one reason for her writing!

Book preview

One.

I’ll never know why my grandparents chose this day in late October, 1929, as the day of my escape, but I do know I was not supposed to enter New York City like this. Not with all this fanfare, although it seemed more like a burlesque comedy routine.

And no one was laughing.

Least of all me.

I'd come in on the train from the Pennsylvania hills, where my werewolf clan hid right out in the open, in plain sight of the Normals who lived nearby. None in this generation of Normals knew we were werewolves. We were eccentric, wanting to keep to ourselves: that was how the Normals looked at us.

After all the trouble of escaping from my parents, it seemed Fate reared its typically (in my case) ugly head, and the Normals in New York would have their way with me.

Except Karolina Wokowski, would-be Broadway dancer, would not give up so soon. I might be from the sticks, but I was a modern girl. Not on the make, mind you, and I didn’t smoke cigarettes, either. The smoke reminded me of charred flesh, a reek I did not want to inhale if I didn’t have to. As a werewolf, you have to deal with that kind of smell sometimes.

I had dealt with it too much over the years.

Me? I’m a flapper. My sand-colored, pleated dress had that lovely boyish shape (if you could call a straight line a shape), I wore a necklace that was fashionably long, and my felt cloche hat had been advertised in the Sears, Roebuck catalog by the It girl herself, Clara Bow. You couldn’t get any better than that.

But what dancer had to deal with this? I stood in Grand Central Terminal, my eyes wide, far enough away from the three railroad men I’d crashed into. With my dance credentials, I should have been light on my feet, not getting them tangled into knots. It made no sense, but the deed was done, and I would be done soon, too, if these men, these Normals, got their paws on me.

My heart pounded, and I could feel the sweat on my forehead; my hands gripped the suitcase handles so hard I was afraid I might break them. How could I possibly get out of here alive?

The dark blue uniforms and caps of the railroad men reminded me of the stories told throughout the clan. No matter whose house you were in, the same horrific tales were told of farmers in blue coveralls shooting every werewolf in sight, and burning, burning, burning …

No pups wanted to live among Normals because of the nightmares we had from those stories.

There are exceptions. Like my brother. Like me.

But neither of us had a choice. That choice had been taken away by our clan’s sickening, evil way of enforcing that separateness. I wouldn’t be surprised if my parents decided to go that route.

I bit my lip to stop its quivering, and hopefully to put off crying. Thank the Fates, no tears fell. Nothing and no one back in Pennsylvania could help my current situation. I’m telling you, I said for the tenth or twelfth time, taking a backward step, that my heel got caught, and I was thrown forward. Into you.

Floor is smooth, the short, scrawny railroad man said.

He’d said it too quickly for my liking. Gulping, I took another two steps back. I preferred to have my back against a wall, but Grand Central is humongous. More likely sixty or seventy steps would get me to the nearest wall.

I couldn't take those steps because of the throng behind me. Another quick glance told me all I needed to know: some people stopped and gawked; others paused, stared at me, then sped away. A few pushed through the throng, no doubt trying to board their trains or maybe ask some last-minute questions at the information booth.

The center of attention. I would have given up my eyeteeth, my left arm, and my rolled stockings for that attention. Except at this moment.

I licked my lips, found my voice. I’m sorry. I need to be going now. I took in each face of the railroad men but didn’t find any sympathy there. My heart hammered with each step they took. They came closer. And closer.

Almost surrounded, my hands gripped the handles of my suitcases tight again. I hadn’t taken many clothes or cosmetics—although what flapper would not have rouge and lipsticks at the ready? My clothes consisted of three dresses, some blouses, some skirts. The other suitcase was a sickly lime-green shade and was bigger and held the Important Things. And it certainly could not end up in the hands of a Normal.

In that cavernous space, I could barely breathe. My heart continued on its grotesque, pounding way; Edgar Allen Poe could have described it well. The railroad men kept coming and coming, as if for the kill …

What’s going on here? To my right, a man in a heavily wrinkled gray uniform strode toward the three in blue.

I turned my attention back to the others. They could attack at any time. But they didn’t. They stopped their advance, standing straight as cadets, their arms stiff at their sides.

I eyed Gray Uniform. Their boss?

I asked, Gray Uniform said, what is going on here. When none of the others answered, Gray Uniform put his fists on his hips, his legs spread. "I know what it is. You’ve accused this young lady of being something she’s not. Again. He wagged a finger at them, as if they were naughty little schoolboys. How many times do I have to tell you that just because someone bumps into you that doesn’t mean they’re an Abnormal?"

I clamped down hard on my teeth. I hated being called an Abnormal, absolutely despised it. Normals used that disgusting word for us shapeshifters all the time. But I knew better than to say anything. I took a few breaths, and soon my breathing became regular again.

The calm did not last long, jarred by the shrillness of Gray Uniform’s whistle. He blew it again, and I winced. I noticed I wasn’t the only one bothered by the sound.

All right now, everybody, he said, arms outstretched. There’s nothing else to see here. It’s time to move along. Your trains aren’t going to wait for you forever. He directed the gawkers away with a shooing motion. That’s right, nothing to see here. Gray Uniform turned to me. I’m sorry about that, miss. I’m their supervisor. He tipped his cap. I hope they didn’t frighten you too much. Here, what’s this?

He stooped to the floor, picking up a piece of crumpled paper. I stared at it, wondering where it had come from. For my own security, I hadn’t written anything that could be incriminating while in Normal hands. I even committed to memory the address of the Shapeshifter Society, where I’d go for help in finding a boring job and a hole-in-the-wall (also known as cheap) apartment.

Gray Uniform handed the paper to me. This looks to be yours, miss. His right eye winked in a slow, casual motion.

My brain cleared. An ally. Amid all the Normals in this city, this railroad man concealed his shapeshifting ability and worked at a Normal job. I took the paper, thanking him.

Although I had already screwed up what all four of my grandparents admonished me not to do, I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

Now it was time to actually follow some of their instructions. It might just save my life.

~ ~ ~

I could finally take a good look at Grand Central Terminal’s Main Concourse. It truly looked grand, as if I’d walked into a fairy-tale chateau in France. Beige marble wrapped around the huge walls and wrought-iron chandeliers dangled from the expansive ceiling. Swaths of light from the Concourse’s long, skinny windows flooded the cavernous room, making most of the shadows retreat as if in fright.

A crowd was about to envelop me, but I noticed it in time and sidestepped them. One thing I needed to learn: being in awe of these gigantic places—so different from the two- and three-story buildings in the Pennsylvania hills—could make me very dead.

I made my way to the information booth. I didn’t need any information, but I could get away from this latest major flow of humanity. I had never seen so many people, and my extended family is big; my clan numbers in the hundreds.

A bench just a few feet from the booth looked like a good place to open the paper Gray Uniform gave me. Curiosity. Ironic that such a catlike trait would be part of a werewolf. And my mother said she thought it would kill me yet.

Or she would, in her own way. In a roundabout way.

Sighing, I took a moment to go down memory lane, remembering my brother, Jakob. I thought of him less and less, which is a terrible thing to say about someone you love, someone with a fantastic funny bone. Not that he was dead—no one in the clan thought he was. But no one could find a trace of him.

What drove him away? My mother. It always came back to her. And my father. Our parents became tyrants who drove my brother and me from their home. He’d left without saying anything to anyone. It hurt so badly that I cried myself to sleep for a week after he left.

Then it dawned on me why I rarely thought about him: the pain at his leaving like that. Still, he did the right thing when he felt he had no choice.

My mother and father refused to believe their sudden tortuous ways would make us desperate to leave. The last time she spoke about Jakob she was in that stern mood of hers, trotting out the old story of hell breaking loose in the world in ’27. That damned Lindbergh, she said, ended up in the field in France. It’s what drove your brother to disappear.

Of all the absurd things she could say.

Maybe it was part of whatever fantasy she entertained at the time. It didn’t matter. I was convinced my mother and father were the direct cause of his leaving, not Lindbergh.

Sitting on the bench near the booth, my suitcases were tight at my sides as I uncrumpled the paper. I know you’re a shapeshifter, it said. Those strong werewolf thoughts of yours give you away to mind readers like me. I can’t read minds at will; only those thoughts that are so strong I can’t help but notice.

Wonderful. My mind was an open book.

Just then, I thought I felt eyes on me. So I was paranoid; considering my background and being in the den of Normals, I felt justified. How I longed for a normal life, to be married, have the proverbial house with a white picket fence, two children, and maybe even a dog.

I could dream, couldn’t I? How sickeningly sweet. After the way my life had been the past year, having a boyfriend would be a welcome relief.

As would not having to constantly look over my shoulder.

I sighed. Maybe I was deluding myself with all these dreams and hopes. Maybe I should sit and cry about what my life had become. But I couldn’t do that. I didn’t have that sit down and die feeling within me. I had a lot of fight left. Plus, I felt I could not just throw away my talents.

I resumed reading the note. Gray Uniform wrote about the Shapeshifting Society. Since I already knew about it, I was tempted to skip that section, but wanted to see what he had to say. Not much, as it turned out, though he did offer some advice to get out of the Terminal: Just take the Park Avenue exit and get a cab.

I blew out a sigh and leaned against the bench back. With all the turmoil in my life, and the staggering numbers of people in the Terminal, I felt fortunate enough to happen upon the one person who would steer me straight.

How could I be so lucky?

I decided to throw my paranoia under a rock for a minute. Gray Uniform was a mind reader, but he wasn’t a good one. Or so he claimed. He couldn’t pluck random thoughts, my random thoughts, out of the space between my ears. That helped settle my nerves and my stomach a little. He talked about strong thoughts. My eyes darted about, my paranoia slithering out from under that rock.

How many others around me had that mental telepathy? How many could read my strong thoughts? He could not be the only one who had that talent.

But I couldn’t dwell on that anymore; survival meant I had to move, and move now. If you could say one thing about me, I was always moving. In perpetual motion. Even stuck in that rathole known as my parents’ house, I moved about, though it wasn’t easy.

I recrumpled the paper and shoved it into one of my coat pockets, then picked up my suitcases, trundling off toward what I hoped was the Park Avenue exit.

Two.

After many strange looks, I found myself in front of the exit Gray Uniform talked about. The sign with Park Avenue emblazoned on it might have helped me sooner if I had bothered to look. Why did it matter that I use this exit? But I followed his instructions to the letter.

I stopped a few feet before the door, my brow furrowed at the steady stream of people entering and exiting the Terminal. There seemed to be no end to the influx and outflow of people.

My feet moved me forward, but try as I might, I couldn’t merge into the exiting stream. It was as if I were trying to time a jump rope without getting tangled. Finally, I pushed my way into the line, people cursing and scowling at me.

I didn’t care, but I should have. I was drawing attention to myself, a regular spectacle. Again. All in the space of a few minutes. My fortune telling great-aunt would’ve told me this did not bode well, that these were bad omens.

She’s a real phony, though she does have her insightful moments.

I let the stream carry me outside, forgetting the great-aunt, remembering what my mother and others in my clan told me about those creatures who made their way to North America. All of them embellished the story—especially my mother—that those creatures, shapeshifters and other types, hopped aboard the Spirit of St. Louis and even dared to alight on the ship that brought Lucky Lindy and his plane back home.

Of course, only those creatures that could handle iron and other metals hitched a ride, so the aggressive European elves were left behind.

Thank goodness for small miracles.

I was brought back to my senses when rain lashed against my face, the blustery wind blowing the cold rain sideways.

Despite my freezing fingers and toes, I could not be dissuaded from what I set out to do. I would hide here in New York the same way my clan did in Pennsylvania, out in the open. I had no choice. Or I would be dead in a few days, either because a Normal figured out what I really was, or because my parents hired an assassin.

Shuddering at the thought of being killed either through conventional means or magical, I shifted to the right, away from the door, my back practically glued to the Terminal’s façade. But I knew I could not stay here shivering; moving away from the Terminal would be my best bet. An even better bet would be to find the Shapeshifting Society. The less I thought about my parents and assassins, the better.

I hoped.

Societies for European immigrants had been organized around the turn of the century, when those who were already here thought they could help by teaching immigrants English and how to find a job.

Enter the Shapeshifting Society. The one difference was that it wasn’t out in the open; shapeshifters found it by looking for a drab sign announcing Miller’s Restaurant near the intersection of Fifty-Sixth Street and Lexington Avenue. The brochure from my grandparents (which I’d memorized) stated the only way it stayed in business was to operate as a simple restaurant turning out simple foods.

I’d wondered about that, until I my grandparents reminded me that speakeasies in the big cities operated in the same manner.

At least those people would only be subject to a brief time in jail.

Shapeshifters would not be so fortunate.

Since I wasn’t yet familiar with the layout of New York, I decided to hail a taxi. The driver could leave me at the intersection when I went in search of the restaurant, since the brochure stressed not to be left directly in front of it. They stated this was for the protection of those who lived and worked there.

I set my jaw and took a few steps toward the curb when I ran into a chubby woman with a double chin. I apologized for running into her and tried to move away, but she matched my every move. Damn her. As I drew in a breath to tell her to get out of my way, I suddenly stopped.

No. Not for a third time. I shut my mouth and backed up to the façade again, my heart pounding. Putting it mildly, I was scared out of my wits, but I wouldn’t give in. What do you want? I asked, my eyes narrowing.

The woman smirked, not the reaction I expected. She held up a hand and shook her head. Feisty. A firecracker. Then she frowned. Considering your situation, you should douse that feistiness.

My right eyebrow arced. What did she know about my situation? Who was she?

Let’s move away from the door, she said, again raising her hand. It’s not what you’re thinking. We need to talk, and talk fast.

I warily looked around. No one jumped me. No one else even approached. Despite my nervousness, I decided to hear what she had to say, hoping she would end up an ally like Gray Uniform. Besides, I was curious.

Yes, I know. Curiosity reared its ugly head again, and curiosity killed the cat; I could have been a carcass a couple of times already. But this matronly woman in a dull brown coat hadn’t immediately summoned a police officer, so maybe I would be all right.

If I guessed wrong, I would be dead soon enough. Before that happened, I’d give in to the change and make her fight for all she was worth, which probably wouldn’t be long, considering her girth. I clutched at my suitcases. Okay, I said. Nothing funny. Or I walk away. Fast.

The woman nodded, motioning for me to move farther to my right. I did, my eyes not leaving her. I trusted her some, but not that much.

That’s good enough, she said, taking a step closer to me. I squirmed. You’re a shapeshifter, she said in a low voice, possibly a werewolf. How do I know? You have strong thoughts emanating from you.

Another one? Could half of the shapeshifting population in New York City read minds?

I don’t read minds, dear; though I can send messages that way if I need to. No, I sense other people’s emotions, their strongest ones. And from the look on your face, I would say you’ve met with Frederick, the railroad man. The man in gray.

I nodded, cocking my head. How did she know Gray Uniform?

Good man, she said. Can read the strong thoughts of any shapeshifter. Can’t read thoughts otherwise. She leaned even closer to me, and I had to bite my lip to stifle a scream. I’m not like that. Besides sensing people’s emotions, I can sense certain types of shapeshifters. You are a werewolf, correct?

My eyes flew open. Was I that obvious?

It’s all right, dear. The supernatural community in this city know each other pretty well. We look out for each other. She put a hand to her top-most chin, considering. I wonder. Yes, I think I shall.

Shall what?

Warn you against something. Nodding her head, the chubby lady continued. "You should not go to the Shapeshifting Society."

Why not? I blurted before thinking. That has always been my problem, but if I wanted to last longer than a few hours, I needed a lot more thinking and a lot less talking. That Society will help me assimilate, won’t they? Plus find me a job and an apartment.

Maybe, if that’s what you want. Her brown eyes bored into me until I thought my soul was laid bare. What do you want?

I shuddered, but not from the cold weather. I considered lying to her. After all, what did she care? She could just be making it up as she went along. Besides, she hadn’t told me her name. How could I continue to talk to her without knowing her name?

Call it one of my eccentricities, but it irked me to talk to someone by using something as bland and uninteresting as Lady or Sir. Not only that, what were people hiding when they refused to tell me their given names?

Ah, you’ve realized where you are. Among the Normals. Which you’re not used to.

I shook my head. Excuse me, I said in a loud voice, lady, but I have to get a cab.

She grabbed my arm and swung me around. Don’t do something you’ll be sorry for.

Though her tone sounded part fearful and part commanding, I was having none of it. ‘Sorry’? What are you talking about? I stared at her thick hand around my bicep. And take your hand off me, lady, or I’ll scream.

That bluff won’t work, the lady said. My name is Mrs. Ramsey. I’ve been helping newcomers to New York for a few years now. Your best bet is to come with me. To my apartment building.

She was right about the bluff; even I knew the police around here were Normals. To your apartment building? And do what?

Rent an apartment.

That helps me? My face felt hot. How? I don’t know that I have the money. I couldn’t believe she was altruistic, but I tested her. "You wouldn’t just give me an apartment, would you?"

Of course not. I have to put food on the table and pay taxes.

I nodded, pursing my lips. I thought so. Good-bye, Mrs. Ramsey. Have a nice life.

Wait a minute. She ran after me, moving at a pretty good pace considering her ample size. Stop for a second and listen to me.

Listen to you? I swung around, slipping and sliding. I regained my balance quickly, something I wished I’d done in the Terminal. Why should I listen to you? I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what your agenda is. Maybe you want to give me away to— I stopped before I said, the Normals because I didn’t want them swooping down on me.

So I thought a second and said, To the authorities, who’ll probably get me to give up the name of the boyfriend I’m trying to get away from. I hoped she understood my ruse.

She smirked. "Nothing could be further from the truth. I certainly don’t want your boyfriend to find you."

I let out a breath. The relief disappeared quickly, though. "But I don’t know that you won’t do that, do I? And in case you’re wondering, I do have to make money in order to live here, even though I need to hide." I winced, stomping my foot. Not again. Karolina Wokowski? She’s the one with her foot in her mouth.

Need to hide? Of course, after what you just said.

Liar.

But Mrs. Ramsey did not break into a smirk or a smile as she continued. How do you intend to do that here? You could do it in some backwater—

I’m from the backwater, I said, scowling. Besides, I didn’t have enough money to go South or West or get a ticket on a steamship.

New York was it?

That’s correct. That, and Broadway.

Mrs. Ramsey raised an eyebrow. Broadway? You’re an actress?

Dancer. And I can sing, too.

Mrs. Ramsey stepped aside. "You want to hide