Red Read online

  Red

  K. D. Miller

  Copyright © 2022 by K. D. Miller.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  K. D. Miller

  P.O. Box 14330

  New Bern, NC 28563

  www.kdmillerbooks.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2022 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover designed by MiblArt.

  RED/ K. D. Miller.—1st ed.

  ISBN 9798435583304

  Dedicated to Lexie for being the best bestie that has ever bestied.

  (Yes, that is totally a word. Trust me, I’m a writer.)

  Yet again, this book wouldn’t have been possible without you.

  (And yet again, I promise Outliers 3 is coming next...for real this time...maybe...)

  ::clears throat::

  (in awesome movie-announcer-guy voice):

  “The following is intended for mature audiences. Viewer discretion is advised.”

  But really, this is an ADULT paranormal romance novel. It’s full of my three favorite Bs: blood, beasties, and bow-chicka-wow-wow.

  Youngins: avert your eyes and close the book immediately. Do not read on. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

  You’ve been warned...

  -X-

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  We don't go into the woods.

  It's been that way for longer than most of us have even been alive. A high stone wall separates the village from the dark, menacing trees, with a towering iron gate in the middle. A gate that exists solely for providing a false sense of security in the minds of the villagers. The tallest door made of the strongest metal couldn't keep the Beast out if it truly wanted in. The gate is only closed on the full moon because technically the forest isn't off limits. Technically the game living there is ours for the taking; berries and nuts and mushrooms ours for the gathering; lumber ours for the chopping. Technically we can come and go as we please, taking resources most of us desperately need. But we don't do any of those things.

  We don't go into the woods.

  And the Beast doesn’t come into the village. At least, it hasn’t in over a hundred years. Not since the Council first decided to use banishment into the woods on the full moon as punishment for the worst crimes...or the slightest ones, if the full moon approached and no one had been sentenced. It isn't a perfect system, but it keeps the Beast from attacking our people. So long as it receives its offering, it leaves us alone. If some don't agree with it, their voices are never heard. The fear instilled into the very bones of the village outweighs any type of moral objection anyone may have.

  I let my mind drift as I clean the old wooden bar top inside the tavern, wondering what the Beast truly is. None of us have ever actually seen it, even the eldest of the elders, but legend says that it's a giant wolf, three times the size of a normal canine, with blood red eyes and claws the size of daggers. Such a creature is hard to imagine...but sometimes on the full moon I hear the howls—and the screams—and in those moments, I can see the Beast as clearly as my own reflection.

  Why did the Beast choose our village to terrorize in the first place? Why does it demand that we sacrifice one of our own to its monstrous appetite every month? What could our forefathers possibly have done to bring down this hell upon us?

  I sigh. I have thousands of questions but know I’ll never have any answers. No one knows why the Beast first began attacking us, only that no matter how we tried to defend ourselves, no matter how many walls we built or gates we closed, no matter how many locks we fastened on our doors, no matter how many bullets we riddled into its hide, it always came and always killed.

  After months of attacks, a group of brave villagers formed a hunting party and ventured into the woods on the full moon to try to kill it before it came for them. They didn't return, but the Beast didn't come into the village that night either. The next month, another, smaller group was sent in to try to kill the creature. Again, they didn't return, but the Beast stayed away. On a hunch, the Council continued to send out smaller and smaller groups each full moon, testing the boundaries of the strange new "truce" they'd discovered with the creature. When the group finally became a single man and the Beast still did not venture out of the woods, the ritual of sending the guilty out began. It has continued ever since.

  I hate it. I hate living in constant fear, wondering if this month could be the month where it all falls apart, where the Beast decides one death simply isn’t enough. I hate seeing the look of dread in the eyes of the guilty...and I hate the sense of relief I feel as I watch them go, thinking to myself “at least it isn’t me.” I hate how disgusted I am at myself for that relief. I hate—

  "Sloane!"

  I tear myself from my thoughts, realizing that Duncan has been calling my name for several minutes.

  "Shit," I whisper as I toss the damp rag into a bucket. He called me by my actual name—never a good sign. "Coming! I'm coming!" I yell back. I wipe my hands on my nearly threadbare dress as I run towards the front of the tavern. Duncan looks furious when I arrive, as expected. His bushy red brows are turned down, his lips pulled downward in a scowl. I duck my head in apology.

  He has no real love for me though I've lived with him most of my life, ever since he begrudgingly took me in when my mother passed. They were distant relatives of some sort, though I can never remember the connection. Third cousins perhaps? I have a grandmother who used to visit upon occasion, but she never felt inclined to take me in herself, rarely even spoke to me before she stopped visiting altogether. She lives in Haven, a small settlement within the woods where only the wealthiest of the wealthy reside. Many years ago, a witch came to town, offering paradise on earth within the woods: a never-ending supply of food, the freshest natural springs, luxurious homes, and, most importantly, eternal protection from the Beast (and any other nuisance tax man or bill collector). The price was so exorbitant that I honestly can’t even comprehend the amount of coin she was rumored to have required, but the most affluent in town jumped at the choice, giving the price hardly a thought. My grandmother was among them.

  She’d left my mother here in the village and, even after my mother had passed and I was alone, she’d never felt compelled to take me with her to that place of dreams. I’ve never understood why. We are blood after all. She lives in fearless luxury while I go days without food at times,
constantly weary of the Beast’s wrath. I try not to let it bother me, try not to let the thought gnaw at my mind over and over because I know I’ll never truly understand why she didn’t want me. But even still, it stings like the devil.

  Though Duncan has never felt fondly towards me, he tolerates my existence and he knows that I do good work for him (though he would loathe to admit it aloud). I began cleaning the rooms in the inn and the dishes in the attached tavern when I was younger, then moved to cooking when I got old enough to be trusted not to burn myself or the building to the ground, and now I'm a barmaid and tend the horses (though of course, I still do a bit of everything).

  The Maiden’s Hearth is one of two inns and three taverns in Silverwood, but we are the most popular by far. Duncan wouldn’t want to admit it, but that’s largely because of how well I keep the place running. Though this life is far from grand or fanciful, I can't complain really. Most orphans would have been left to fend for themselves in a place where even the "fortunate" often struggle, basically sentenced to death. Duncan kept a roof over my head and food in my stomach (when we could afford it). I owed him my life, regardless of how much he seemed to be offended by my very existence most days.

  "Sloane will tend to your horses and bring dinner to your rooms if you'd like," he says in a gruff tone.

  There's a small group waiting. They smell of salt and sea and I know they must have come from one of the fishing villages near the coast. I have the sudden ridiculous notion to beg them to take me with them when they go. I want so badly to visit the sea, to feel the spray on my skin, feel the sand beneath my feet, to see the deep blues and greens dance beneath the moonlight with my own eyes. I've dreamt of it my entire life, but I've never actually seen it, only relying on tales from others to fuel my fantasies. I've never even left Silverwood really, and I know I probably never will. The sea will remain a dream and nothing more. I try to ignore the twinge of sorrow that the thought sends rippling through me.

  Pushing the thoughts aside, I smile at the group and shove some wayward locks of hair off of my brow. Both of the men, and one of the women smile back. The other woman scowls at me, as if I've offended her simply by breathing. I don't let her reaction bother me too much. This isn't the first time it's happened and it won't be the last. I somehow managed to gain generous curves in the places males seem to like them most, despite being nearly starved a majority of my life, and men have always taken notice of me. I used to curse my looks. As if I needed another thing setting me apart from the rest of the girls, another glaringly obvious sign that I was different, that I didn’t quite belong somehow.

  I've rarely found myself returning any of the interest I receive, but I have found that many women decide to dislike me on the sole principle of my looks being (in their opinion) superior to their own. It isn't fair, but I have no say in the matter, so it doesn't do to dwell.

  The guests head inside with Duncan and I lead their horses towards the large stable around the back of the inn. I get them settled, stroking their noses and whispering sweet affections into their fuzzy ears. I've always had more love for animals than most people. Animals don't judge you based on circumstances beyond your control; animals don't ridicule you and delight in your humiliation; animals don't think they have a right to grope your backside without permission when serving them drinks.

  I promise to visit them later and head back inside to begin work on the travelers' meals. Duncan had managed to talk himself into venturing into the very fringes of the forest yesterday morning and by sheer luck he'd killed a large buck. The battled-scarred man had come back inside the "safety" of the wall white as a ghost, his hands trembling, and I can only imagine what he might have seen out in those woods. No matter what he faced, I’m thankful for his sudden act of bravery: this is the first time we've had any kind of abundance of meat in almost a year. I've tried to talk him into teaching me to hunt in the past, telling him that I'd be willing to venture into the woods myself, but he seemed offended by the idea, as if I was trying to say I was braver than he was, and vehemently refused. Of course I was afraid of the woods just like the rest of the villagers, but if it meant not going to bed with hunger pangs echoing through my stomach, I would gladly face off with just about anything out there.

  My mouth waters and my stomach gives an angry rumble as I prepare the meals for the guests. I'm happy that the scowling woman doesn't answer the door, though I do wish that the man (who I assume is her husband) wouldn't address my chest when thanking me and taking the heavy-laden tray. I sometimes wonder if men realize women have eyes or a face at all.

  Afterwards, I make bowls of stew for Duncan and myself and I'm surprised when he sits down to eat with me in front of the large fire in the dining room. He compliments my cooking and thanks me for taking over the duties once again after our last cook was sent into the woods. I hadn't cared for Linette even a bit, but I still felt a twinge of sadness for her when I think about her fate. But, when you get caught trying to poison a Council member's wife so that you can continue your affair with him, the odds of not ending up a meal for the Beast are not in your favor.

  "Did you see anything in the woods? When you went in for the buck?" I ask around a mouthful of stew.

  "No, but I could feel...something."

  "Feel something? Like what?" I lean forward unconsciously, desperate to hear more. The forest has always held a strange fascination for me. I don't know if it's just because it's an exciting unknown—terrifying, of course, but exciting nonetheless—like the forbidden fruit tempting me, or because my grandmother lives within them (whether she wants me or not, she’s my only kin and I still feel connected to her)...or maybe because sometimes when I hear the howls on the full moon, I think I hear pain and loneliness in the sound, and that pain and loneliness calls to my own. I know the thoughts are ridiculous, but I can't stop them from whispering through my mind. How could a terrible beast who feasts on human flesh feel anything at all, let alone sorrow? Sometimes when I'm free to spend some time on my own, I climb a large old oak that sits just inside the wall and just stare out into the woods for hours. I'm honestly not sure why.

  "Don't know exactly, just something not...right. I sensed evil and hatred and anger in those woods. Dark magic I think." He shudders slightly, as if shaking off the remembered ill feeling. "Full moon or not, it's a crazy thing to go into that damned place."

  “Well, thank you for doing it. I know it wasn't easy."

  He gives me a curt nod in acknowledgment and I fix him a second bowl. I'm surprised when he tells me to fix another for myself as well, but I don't dare argue. I'm full to nearly bursting for the first time in recent memory and I grin to myself as I make my way outside after I clean up our supper. The grin falters slightly when I realize that this is how many people feel every night. I don't know that I can imagine what that would be like, though I try. I shake myself, determined to enjoy this evening and the gifts I've been given and not dwell on the seemingly unfairness of life. I visit with the horses a bit, singing them nonsense songs as I brush them down and give them some fresh oats for the night. Exhausted, I finally make my way up to my loft. I don't have much to my name in this world, but I do have this small space that's mine and mine alone and I love it dearly.

  I lie back on my thin pallet of furs, and though a sharp chill is starting to creep into the air late at night, signaling that deep winter will be arriving soon, I still open the small round door that I'd made in the thatched roof. I stare at the moon, only four days away from being full, and drift off to sleep with a full stomach and a smile on my lips.

  Chapter 2

  Though there are still a couple of days before the full moon, the uneasy feeling that always accompanies this time of the month is already settling over the village. We have no reason to believe that this time will be any different than any of the others, that the Beast won't accept our offering and will venture inside the walls instead, but everyone still feels the weight of the potential threat. Everyone is more on alert. J
umpier. Quicker to anger and irritation.

  The travelers left yesterday but, unsurprisingly, I'm still here. I close my eyes, imagining the sea, and sigh, knowing deep down that in my mind is the only place I'll ever see it. I make my way to the market with several large packages of meat to barter with or sell, excited at the prospect.

  "Good morning, Red.” My lips pull up into a small grin.

  "Good morning, Kieran."

  He falls into step beside me and bumps my shoulder with his. I give him a sidelong look and a smile. His long blonde hair falls in soft waves to his shoulders, and his amber eyes dance with constant mischief. Kieran is one of the few men whose interest I did return. We've never been anything serious, never anything even venturing on love, but we’ve been friends since we were young. For whatever reason, he was never cruel to me, never joined in with the others even when we were children, and we've always gotten on quite well. As we got older, we began to find distraction from the weariness of life in each other...distraction in a very physical sense.

  He'd given me the nickname "Red" almost ten years ago now when Duncan had bought me my now somewhat infamous scarlet cloak as a birthday gift. I'd been fourteen and shocked beyond belief that Duncan had even remembered it, let alone gotten me a gift. As popular as Kieran was around the village, it was no surprise that the name had spread like wildfire and stuck like tack. Everyone (except Duncan when he's angry), simply calls me Red. I'm not sure most of them even know or remember my real name anymore. Sometimes even I forget that it isn't actually my name.

  "What's in the basket today?" Kieran leans in to peek inside and I smack the back of his head with an open palm. He stands, rubbing the spot, and mock pouts.

  "Nothing for you," I say, giving him a stern look, though I throw him a wink as well. He turns and walks backwards beside me, not worried at all about tripping on the uneven cobblestones.