The Deviants: The Legacy Series, #12

By Sheritta Bitikofer

America – 1897
For Logan Elster, life was hard enough. With a gambling drunkard of a father and a mother who had to lie about her bruises, there's only so much a sixteen year old can do. But when he comes home to witness another beating, he flies into a rage and discovers something about his ancestry that he never knew before. He has inherited a frightening gift from his grandfather and has become a werewolf, inadvertently destroying everything he holds dear. In search of the only man who can help him, Logan finds more than just a mentor in the small town of Devia, Alabama. He finds a community of men just like him. A community of werewolves.
But the community is in far more danger than their leader, Robert Croxen, will ever admit to. An industrial revolution is sweeping the nation and the railroad has come to lower Alabama. Devia is in the perfect place, but Robert won't sell a single acre, no matter the price. Desperation drives the owner of the railroad to investigate what Robert's hiding and what his spies find is something out of the old world fairytales. Question is, what will he do about it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moonstruck Writing
• Release date: Mar 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781946821423

Sheritta Bitikofer

Sheritta Bitikofer is a paranormal romance author of eclectic tastes with a passion for storytelling. Her goal with each book is to rebel against shallow intimacy and inspire courage through the power of love and soulful passion. Her biggest thrill comes when she presents love in a genuine light, where the protagonists not only feel a physical attraction to one another, but a deep emotional (and dare we say spiritual?) connection that fuels their relationship forward into something that will endure much longer than the last pages of their novel. A devoted wife and fur-mama to two shelter rescue dogs, Sheritta’s life is never dull. When she’s not writing her next novel, she can be found binge-watching her favorite shows on Netflix, doing Zumba with her friends, or painting at a medieval reenactment event.

Book preview

Prologue

South Carolina, 1880

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Susan sat upon the settee in the front parlor. Her back straight, eyes fixed ahead, she still couldn’t bring herself to believe any of this was truly happening. In the span of just a few days, her life had changed so dramatically. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The house buzzed with activity. The constant traffic of caterers, servants, and family echoed down the halls and through the many rooms. The noise of people would have driven her mad if she wasn’t so numb to it all. The excited chattering voices, the tramping footfalls, the swishing of full skirts bustling through doorways. It wouldn’t stop. Not until the wedding day.

The bride should have been the happiest of them all. She should have been giggling with her friends, gushing with her aunts and elderly relatives who had traveled all the way from Tennessee for the event. She should have taken some control of the arrangements, but everything had been left to her mother and grandmother. Her step-father, or as he was affectionately called The Colonel, took it upon himself to spend his days in a cloud of cigar smoke with the other men, boasting about what a fine match his daughter had made. Out of everyone, he might have been the most thrilled.

Susan shared in none of it. Her body felt dead, heavy and useless. She couldn’t remember the last time she smiled or answered truthfully to any of the million questions from her loved ones. Ask mama, she would mutter. Ask granny, she would sometimes grumble. The color of the bridesmaids’ dresses didn’t interest her. Nor did the faire served at the party after the ceremony. She stood for the wedding dress fitting and allowed the ladies to croon over the long lacy train. To her, it was pointless. None of it held any meaning. The white gown was little more than a burial shroud. Her life was over the moment she realized that she would actually be marrying Jasper Elster.

He wasn’t a bad man. Not that she could tell, anyway. But Susan didn’t love him. In her lap, lay her hands, cupped and motionless. She didn’t want to move, and she was sure that she hadn’t for hours. The hollow between her palms might as well have held her shattered, broken heart. The heart that Ilias had carelessly tossed back to her.

That night seemed ages ago, in another lifetime before yards of satin were draped over her poster bed and she couldn’t look anywhere without seeing something like invitations or favors that would be given out at the reception. In another life, she wouldn’t be here. She’d be somewhere far away with Ilias, wrapped up in his strong arms and the only focus of his bright, crystalline blue eyes. Jasper’s eyes were brown like mud with hair to match. She couldn’t even pretend that her husband was her true lover. They were so different, so dissimilar that they might have been from other worlds.

Thinking of Ilias now with his dazzling smile and charming ways made her stomach churn again. Nausea was a constant reminder that she couldn’t be completely insensible. She couldn’t completely shut out everything. Especially not what was coming from within.

Susan swallowed back the pool of saliva in her mouth and closed her eyes as panic rose into her throat once more. This wedding, as much as she hated it, had to happen. Soon. Her dresses were already fitting too tight and she could only blame her vomiting on a bit of bad pork for so long before they would become concerned.

If only she hadn’t told Ilias. If only she had kept him for a little longer. Then, she wouldn’t even be here. She’d be someplace she had never been before. Somewhere out west, or maybe further south. Or perhaps they would have gone to Europe, where Ilias was from. She would have the life she wanted. It wouldn’t have been easy, and she’d have to leave her family behind. But at least she would have been happy.

Sweetheart?

The voice as tender and light as the whisper of dove feathers. She’d know it anywhere.

Susan opened her eyes to see her mother standing in the doorway of the parlor, looking from her daughter to the empty corners of the room. She had searched here for solitude and found it for just a moment. Just a moment to be miserable and heartbroken. That’s all she wanted anymore. No wedding, no people. Just her and this ache in her chest.

Her mother hurried forward and sat beside her, a look of concern written in the youthful features of her face. As mothers went, Nancy Jenkins was unconventional. She had her first child at a young age, out of wedlock. Susan was the lovechild from a man she had never met. If The Colonel hadn’t come into their lives and ignored her scandalous situation, they wouldn’t be living as comfortably as they did now. Even with The Colonel’s northern roots, Nancy had wriggled her way into the most exclusive circles of South Carolina society. All for Susan and the future she was so willing to throw away for Ilias and the sake of romance. Barely seventeen herself, she seemed to be following in her mother’s footsteps.

What’s wrong? her mother asked, taking hold of Susan’s icy hands. Are you not feeling well again?

Susan could feel the weight of her secret sitting atop her lungs, pushing the air out of her. Her sorrow could be hidden from most of the wedding party, but it was too exhausting to keep this from her mother, her sole defender in every way. And from the exhaustion and grief, sprung the hot tears that pushed at the corners of her eyes.

No, she whispered. I’m not well. I’m not well at all.

Unable to hold it back any longer, Susan flung herself into her mother’s lap, burying her sobs in the stiff taffeta of her gown. She let her senses drown in the perfumed scent of the fabric that she wrinkled between her clenched fists. Instead of demanding an explanation for such an outburst, her mother petted her hair and spoke soothingly. It had been so long since Susan behaved like a child, clinging to her mother’s skirt as if that would save her from the monsters at the door.

What’s wrong with her?

Another voice she could never forget. The booming, authoritative demands of The Colonel made her shiver and shrink further against her mother, seeking shelter until it was all over. If she could have just stayed here in the parlor forever, that would be fine with her.

It’s just pre-wedding jitters, dear, her mother replied coolly. Nothing to worry about.

The heavy thud of his boots strutting away from the parlor was her cue that all was safe again. She didn’t hate The Colonel, and she couldn’t begrudge the life he had given them. She remembered what it was like at three years old, her bare feet shuffling across the dirt floor of a shack with a roof that leaked and rats for bedmates. She wasn’t so ungrateful and spoiled that she couldn’t appreciate the mountain of a man that swore to be like the father she never had. But this wedding and everything leading up to it had made him into a person she didn’t know. Cold, decisive, insisting. This wedding was his idea, his match, his fault.

I can’t do it, mama, Susan whimpered as she sniffled back the last of her tears. I can’t marry him.

Her mother took her by the shoulders and eased her up. Susan pressed her lips tight as she met the stern, but loving gaze. Yes, you can. And you have to. For my sake, you have to.

I don’t love him, Susan confessed, mindful to keep her voice low, so no one else might hear them.

Nancy nodded. I know, sweetheart. I know you don’t. I wish you did, but I understand why. It’s hard to even think of loving someone else when you’re already in love. You have to believe me that it will get easier with time.

The words sounded as if they came from experience, but Susan couldn’t believe it. Her mother and The Colonel always seemed so madly in love, so devoted to one another, even during the roughest of times.

There was someone who came after your father, Nancy said carefully. He wanted to marry me before you were born, but I didn’t. The bittersweet sentiment in her smile would have broken Susan’s heart, if it wasn’t already broken. I was waiting for your father. I held out hope for months, for years, that he would somehow come back and find me. But he didn’t and I had to move on. I had you to take care of. Her mother reached up and brushed aside a dangling strand of hair that had come loose from her pins. And soon, you’ll have a little one to look after, too. If you don’t marry Jasper now, you will regret it. You may not love him, but he will take care of you. And I need him to take care of you both.

Susan’s eyes went wide. You know? she gasped.

Nancy grinned and they bent their foreheads together. Darling, a mother knows things. And I know by the way you’ve been moping, that Ilias is gone. She pulled Susan into a tight embrace. If I could have spared you the pain of losing the man you love, I would have. Life doesn’t always turn out how we think it should, but it’s our job to make the best of it.

Shaking arms returned her mother’s hug and Susan felt as if she would cry again. Once more, her mother had become her savior in the moment she needed it most. Through poverty, through loss, and through tragedy, they had always had one another. Another tear spilled onto her cheek, but this wasn’t shed for Ilias or the uncertain future that awaited her with Jasper. This tear was for her mother and the unsettling truth that once she was a married woman, these talks and hugs would be numbered.

Chapter One

South Carolina, 1898

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Logan swung the axe to split one more log. The two thick halves fell to either side of the stump, tumbling and rolling across the ground. That was the last of it. He drew his arm across his damp brow and collected the halves to stack them with the rest. He should have been on his way into town by now. Ollie, the master horseman, would be waiting for him. But these logs needed to be split before the final winter chill settled in. The morning proved unseasonably warm, and it might as well have been the perfect time. It wouldn’t be done otherwise.

Over the earthy scent of pine needles and his own acrid sweat, he could smell something else coming from the house. Logan paused and sniffed the sweet aroma of baking apples and cinnamon. He let a smile curve his lips when he heard the groan of the stove door opening, and then closing. His mother was baking again. She hadn’t baked anything other than bread in months.

He set down the axe beside the wood pile and rushed toward the open door.

Before he could get further than two strides onto the wide front porch, his mother shouted, You aren’t getting any until supper. No use running in here to get a piece.

Logan let his bony, broad shoulders slump in defeat as he stepped inside their modest, leaky cabin. I finished chopping the wood, maw. Can’t I have just one apple slice?

The biggest room of the house consisted of the living room and kitchen, with a dining table as something of a partition between the two. The threadbare rug, which had been a wedding present to his parents, lay across the creaking floorboards and dipped in the places where it covered gaps between the planks. The furniture was in need of a reupholstering they couldn’t afford, and the only touches of hominess were the short, drab curtains that hung over the smudgy windows.

The kitchen, his mother’s domain, wasn’t much better in the way of shabbiness. The pump at the wash station leaked when it was used, causing the boards on that side of the room to rot out every six months. The stove pipe that tunneled through the roof harbored a hairline crack somewhere that they had yet to patch up. The pantry was meagerly stocked, the cupboards full of chipped dinnerware, and the one stool in the corner rocked no matter how much Logan tried to fix it.

Every surface, however, was clean and free of rat pellets. The same went for the two bedrooms that encompassed the back half of the house. His mother, though she had little control over much anymore, did ensure that the place was wiped down and scrubbed almost daily. It might have been the only effort made to keep her family healthy.

Standing near the table, was his mother. Her black hair was pulled back with a cord, eyes shining with pride as she set down the freshly baked apple pie. The crispy, golden brown top crust glittered with sugar granules as steam curled from the even cuts that were made before it was put in the oven. Through these carefully made cuts, he could see the mouthwatering apple slices beneath.

Out of all his mother’s recipes, this was his favorite and her best. It wasn’t every day they could come by fresh apples, and she must have used the last of the seasonings she had set aside after their meager Christmas feast just a week ago. She had told him she wanted to save it for a special occasion. Just what it was, he didn’t know. His birthday had come and gone as quickly as the holidays did, so he knew it couldn’t be that. And there was no reason to celebrate in their house. Not anymore.

His mother lifted her chin and smiled to him the way she always did when he came into the room. That happy sparkle in her eyes made all the hard work worth it. Well, maybe just one slice.

He took another step and his toe hit something on the floor. The hollow clink that his shoe tip made against the trash told him enough. He watched the bottle roll across the floor and stop on a slightly uneven board near one of the bedroom doors. When he looked back to his mother, she was no longer smiling. Her eyes had followed the liquor bottle too.

It wasn’t his, and it wasn’t hers. His father was conveniently absent – again. But that wouldn’t keep either of them from blaming him for its presence there. He must have dropped it last night before she had to carry him to bed. He couldn’t sleep on the floor all night.

They stood in silence for an agonizing moment before she turned away to scrub her hands with a dish rag. Don’t you need to go to work? she asked.

Logan looked down to his clothes and then his hands that were speckled in dirt. He should have brushed off before coming inside. Yes, but I’ll leave in a minute.

You don’t want to keep Ollie waiting for long.

I know. He nodded and took up the dull knife sitting on the table beside the pie. If he was careful enough, he could pick a softened slice between one of the cuts in the crust and not ruin the beautiful effect of the whole. What’s the occasion?

One glance toward his mother made him go still before he began his probing. That smile on her lips was familiar too. It wasn’t for him, or even for his father. It belonged to some other memory from long ago. He’d see that gentle, closed-lipped smile every once and a while when she thought no one was looking. In the quiet hours of the evening