Wrong Side of the Storm

By Bryna Butler

Get ready for a quirky thrill ride full of spunky book blogger rants, sneaky twists, liberally-used nicknames, smoldering smirks from Mothman, and even a hippy vampire. Hold on kiddos, it’s Mothman verses the Weather Machine!

When a mysterious, new player wields a deadly storm to force the men in black into lockdown, teens Eric and Bridget are suddenly separated. With Bridget on the inside and Eric on the outside, the two race to beat the clock and open the doors before the suits make the ultimate sacrifice to prevent the base from falling into the wrong hands.

The Mothman Mysteries are set in the same universe with the same characters, but the books are standalone mysteries and can be read in any order. Considered a clean teen series, suitable for pre-teens. A humorous young adult paranormal mystery for fans of Doctor Who and The Dresden Files.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryna Butler
• Release date: Feb 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9780986169779

Bryna Butler

Butler's young adult mystery novels feature strong female leads and are woven from elements of horror, suspense, comedy, and mystery, all in a modern, small town setting. She is best known for her Midnight Guardian Series (YA Paranormal Mystery) and Mothman Mysteries (YA Sci-Fi Mystery).Butler is inspired by writers like Cassandra Clare, Jennifer Armentrout, Rachel Caine, Joss Whedon, and Patricia Briggs. Her work contains no profanity or explicit scenes, making it appropriate for pre-teen as well as teen readers.

Book preview

Wrong Side of the Storm

Mothman Mysteries, Book 2

by Bryna Butler

Copyright © 2019 Bryna Butler

Mothman BRAND logo by Joshua Labello

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9861697-7-9

Swancrest Publishing

Any trademarks used are the property of their respective companies and are used without permission. This is a work of fiction. All people, places, and situations described are used fictitiously or are the result of the author’s imagination. No portion of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted without the author’s prior written consent.

table of contents

dedication

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

sneak peek

acknowledgements

about the author

books by bryna butler

dedication

For my father,

whose sage advice and life lessons allow me to weather any storm.

one | a change in the air

Eric Jansen

This is my morning to snag a tasty tidbit teetering more than a hundred feet above the river’s swift waters. Orange eats the horizon and threatens a new day. It’s only a threat for now. The sky is still mostly dark. Still night. The hour so late the demons have crawled back into their holes, and so early the angels are still tucked between pristine sheets.

The man clutches his chest directly over his heart as if I’ve caught him with a hand in the cookie jar. It’s not like he was looking to bump into someone way up here. Though he isn’t the only one surprised. My shoulders fall a little as I realize I’m not getting breakfast.

He sputters, I . . . where . . . how did you—

He is nervous. Confusion contorts his face. Breaths come shallow and fast. The pound of his heart is nearly audible. Long, smooth fingers—the kind that haven’t seen more than a day’s worth of manual labor ever—fidget with dark framed eyeglasses that look like they belong in an 80s nerd movie or on my bandmate, Owen. He pushes the frames up his nose.

You don’t need to adjust your glasses. I’m really here. I say with my trademark smirk in tow. My feet swing in the air as I sit on the crossbeam at the very peak of the four-lane bridge over the river.

His eyes grow with awe. Are you . . . are you an angel? he asks.

I snort.

Umm, no. But I can see how my silken hair and stunning appearance would lead you to believe it. My lips twist to one side in amusement, but they don’t hold there for long. Finally, I sigh. Listen, buddy. I’m just an interested bystander trying to do the right thing.

The right thing? he scoffs.

Well, yeah. You’re here on the bridge so high up and so early in the morning. Guessing you’re not up here for the fresh air. Not so subtle, man.

He straightens and tightens his lips. Shaking hands smooth down his white lab coat, a futile effort in the wind that whips at everything this high up. I doubt even the drivers of the cars rushing across the bridge below can see us at this height.

No, he says, answering a question I didn’t ask. My decision is made. I can’t turn back now. There’s too much at stake. I’m sorry you’ve put yourself in danger coming up here. Just get down, kid, before you hurt yourself.

From angel to kid in less than a minute. I wonder if it was my faded jeans and sneakers or the drumsticks in my back pocket that changed his perception. I don’t think he sees me swallow a laugh.

Oh yeah . . . he doesn’t see. He’s too busy spreading his arms out to his sides. His eyes close to the wind, and I realize that he may just do it.

No fast moves, I think. It’s got to be mad mojo to startle a man on the edge. How do I get myself into these situations? Oh yeah, I know. It’s all Bridget’s fault.

Okay, so maybe not totally her fault. It was me who headed out for a walk when I couldn’t sleep, but it was going to be a short walk and maybe breakfast.

It was also me who spotted Lab Coat Dude standing atop the Silver Memorial Bridge. Again, not my fault. I thought maybe he was a vampire, my favorite comfort food. Yep. I eat vampires and, no, they do not taste like chicken. Vampires eat humans. My kind hunt and eat the vampires. It’s a whole food chain thing.

Anyway, I guess it was also me who pressed the tattoo—that’s not really a tattoo—on my left arm. The tattoo isn’t ink. It’s something more. The contraband alien tech hides my true form if I so choose. The technology, a Biometric Remodeling Apparatus with Necessity Duplicator (BRAND for short) transforms me into one of three forms: human, invisible, or my natural form. And naturally, I’m legendary.

Though my human disguise is teenager Eric Jansen, in reality, I am one of the last of my kind. I am the alien that has made Earth my home for centuries. I am the outcast sometimes mistaken for a fallen angel, a beast. I am the offworlder with great, gray wings and eyes of glowing red.

I am the creature Earthlings call Mothman.

And it was my rockin’ wings that lifted me into the sky above the bridge this morning. Can’t say I wasn’t disappointed when the guy didn’t turn out to be a savory vampire breakfast special. As soon as I got close, I could see that Lab Coat Dude wasn’t a vampire, just a human and a sad one at that.

And that is why it’s all Bridget’s fault.

Thinking about how Bridget North, my human best friend on Earth, would hound me later if I didn’t at least try to help is exactly what led me to this rather annoying predicament. My mind imagined those big, brown eyes of hers begging me to act; begging me to be the hero she thinks I am.

So, I pressed my BRAND again. This time, I chose absconditus mode, which renders me invisible in Earth’s atmosphere.

I landed beside the man atop the bridge and took a seat on the beam just to his side. With my legs dangling over the edge, I pressed the BRAND again and chose human form. The BRAND is quick, making my transformation from invisible to human in a default 3.76 seconds. To the desperate man in the lab coat, a striking young rogue—yours truly—suddenly appeared.

Oh, I get the angel reference now. Makes sense.

With arms still open wide, Lab Coat Dude shifts his body weight forward slamming me out of my thoughts.

Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . whoa, whoa . . . whoa, I warn. Just hold it right there, unless you are set on completely ruining my morning?

He glares at me. Okay, not in the mood for humor. Guess I can understand that. Without a thought, out of my mouth comes, Wanna talk?

Geez, did I really just say that? Bridget is definitely in my head, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Maybe it’s this whole scene. It’s me being here in this place—this very spot—so high above the Earth. A hopeless soul ready to end it all. A story all too familiar; one that haunts me, yet I’ve never told it. Not to anyone. Not even to my best friend. Especially my best friend.

Come on, I say, extending a hand. Let me help you.

You can’t, Lab Coat Dude says. His eyes are focused on the water below. No one can stop them now. But this . . . maybe . . . I must try. Let it end with me.

Let it end with me, he repeats in a whispered prayer as he closes his eyes and raises his chin to the heavens. The man then exhales and takes a step. Strong winds lap the top of the bridge and escort him into oblivion head over heels.

Slux!

I dive forward, and the BRAND does its magic again on command. My soft Mothman wings burst forth suddenly ripping through the air. I pull them back and drop into a nose dive.

Gravity and wind oppose as our bodies plummet. His lab coat bubbles with air like a parachute. Arms and legs flail. These slow his decent affording me the chance to gain on him, but every millisecond we drop is also a millisecond that closes the gap between us and the icy river below.

I reach out. Every muscle, from wing to fingertip, strains to its limit. My palm closes again and again, only to come up empty as the man frantically fights the air around him to no avail.

I pull one arm back and hold it as close as I can to my side. I focus on tucking my wings in too, holding them so tightly they ache instantly. Finally, I bow my head in line with my body. It’s all I can do to gain an edge as we fall.

And just when I’m about to give up—when the water seems way too close—luck shows itself as I feel the corner of the man’s lab coat brush my palm. I close my fist tightly around it. The corner of fabric is all I have, but it will have to be enough. Please let it be enough. I yank, hoping to get him closer so that I can gain a better purchase and fly him to safety.

The yank, a sudden jolt, doesn’t defy gravity. It doesn’t bring him closer, but it does open his eyes. Those eyes dart to me falling above him. They take me in. All of me. In the duration of a heartbeat, his eyes survey every inch of alien me from my glowing, red eyes to the soft gray fibers that cover my body and giant wings.

And the man judges the book by its cover.

Lab Coat Dude screams.

He wails.