Captive of Outlaws (Shifters of Sherwood Book 1)

Prologue

IT SEEMS LIKE ALL OFSherwood County has turned out for my parents’ funeral.

The Fox Hunt Club’s reception room is crammed with grown-ups, people I kind of recognize from Daddy’s job or Mama’s volunteer work, nice-meaning adults in black who lean down and whisper how sorry they are for me, talking all sweet like I’m three years old instead of thirteen.

Ms. Perkins, the social worker, keeps a hand on my shoulder the whole time, but glances at her phone whenever she thinks I’m not looking.

“I’m sorry,” she says, when she catches me staring. “There’s a lot of kids out there who need help, Maren. And not a lot of...resources. I’m doing my best, here.”

I didn’t ask for an apology from her, but I nod anyway, the heavy velvet bow on the back of my head swishing against my hair. “Can I sit down now?”

She looks around the room, seeing everyone start to take their seats, and nods. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

I scowl, because I hate being called that, and stride right for the front row. Behind me, I hear Ms. Perkins’ kitten heels clacking after me.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you want to sit so—”

I whirl around. “Yes,” I say. “I want to see them.”

Ms. Perkins opens her mouth, then closes it again. “All right.”

I plant myself on a folding chair right in front and stare at their caskets. Caskets, the funeral director kept calling them. But they’re coffins. Everyone knows that. Just like someone in Sherwood to use a polite word instead of telling the truth.

They didn’t die in a car crash—they passed away suddenly.

They aren’t being put in a hole in the ground—they’re being laid to rest.

People aren’t angry at how freaking unfair it is—they’re sorry for my loss.

Well, I’m over it. I want to see.

Daddy looks blank, like he’s fast asleep, his hands folded solemnly over the stomach of his three-piece suit. Mama, though, looks almost happy. Serene, even—a vocabulary word we learned last month in school. Her strawberry blonde waves, just a little lighter than my auburn, lie gently around her face and neck, where her signature diamond necklace glints.

I bite my cheek hard to stop the tears.

No use crying over spilled milk, Daddy used to say. Well, this is the spilledest milk of all.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.” A man takes to the podium up front, calling for attention. He’s about Daddy’s age, dark hair and ruddy-faced, not someone I recognize. I spin around to Ms. Perkins.

“Who’s that?” I ask, not bothering to whisper.

“Shh,” she says. “In a minute, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” the man says. He clears his throat and bows his head, mumbling a quick prayer. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. Daddy and Mama were never much for church, outside of Christmas and Easter. And even then, just for appearances’ sake.

The man looks up, fixes his audience with a stare.

I already hate him.

“We gather here today to say farewell to Richard and Jennifer de Mornay,” he begins. “Gone, I think we’d all agree, much too soon.”

There are murmurs of agreement. I fold my arms and scowl at him.

“For those of you who don’t know me”—this draws some light titters from the audience—“my name is John Lackland, and Richard was a longtime friend and associate of mine. We all know the business community here in Sherwood is tight-knit, and no one was prouder than I was when our own native son and former district attorney Richard de Mornay was promoted to the U.S. Attorney’s office. Could not,” he pauses for effect, “have happened to a more respectable, responsible man.”

Again, he pauses.

“Richard,” he goes on at last, “was nothing if not sensible. Practical.” There are more murmurs of agreement. “We all knew him as a straight shooter. Always reminding us the value of a hard day’s work, that nothing comes for free, that you can’t get something for nothing. He planned for the future, always. Why, the moment his daughter Maren was born, he set up a college fund for her.”

I shrink into my seat as the eyes of the room turn to me. Who is this guy and who does he think he is, getting everyone to stare at the poor little orphan girl?

I want to flip him the bird.

“And now, sadly, that future will not come to pass for him, or for his lovely wife Jennifer.” Again, this guy—John—hangs his head. “But my hope, as I believe is the hope of many of us here, is that his daughter—”

I jerk my head up again, surprised and angry.

“—will always have a future in Sherwood.” He smiles at me, a smile that turns my stomach.

The speech concludes with some Bible verses and a final amen, and then it’s time for sandwiches and drinks and hopefully, hopefully, finally going home.

I’m hiding in the corner, sipping a Shirley Temple I talked a bartender into making me, when John finds me.

“Maren,” he says, extending a hand.

I don’t shake it.

“What?” I say.

He blinks. Then resets his face. “I suppose you’re still in shock,” he says. “No time to insist on good manners.”

I say nothing. Just slurp my Shirley.

“I know you and I don’t know each other well,” he goes on, “but your father and I were close. Long time friends.” He smiles, in a way that feels entirely inappropriate for a funeral.

“Okay,” I say. “And?”

John bristles a tiny bit—but again, shakes it off. “Do you know what an executor is, Maren?”

I shake my head.

“I suppose your legal education can come later.” He chuckles. “It’s the person in charge of someone’s affairs after they...pass. And in your parents’ case, that person is me.”

I look up at him, this strange, slick man I’ve barely talked to in my life. “So what?”

John looks taken aback, but only briefly, and doesn’t drop his sickly-sweet voice. “So that means I’ll be the one taking care of you from now on, Maren. You’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“But...” I glance around the room—to the milling crowd of guests, the waitstaff, Ms. Perkins the social worker who’s off helping herself to a shrimp salad sandwich. “When do I get to go home?”

John smiles a wincing smile. “Ah, I’m afraid you won’t be going back to your parents’ house. We’ll be putting it on the market to cover some...debts your father left behind.”

My stomach goes cold. “But that’s where I live!” I blurt out. “That’s where everything I have is. My books, my clothes, my car...”

I blush a little at that last one, because obviously it’s not my car yet. But Daddy always said I would get the Mustang as soon as I turned sixteen. So it feels like my car.

“Yes, yes, I know,” John says, patting me a little too firmly on the shoulder. “It’s a difficult reality to face, especially so young. But it’s for the best.”

“Where am I going to go?” I cry. People are staring now, the polite murmuring dying down to listen to the little orphan girl throw a fit. Well, I don’t care. I fold my arms, almost want to stomp my foot. “I want to go home.”

“Your home will be with me now,” John says. “I promise you you’ll have everything you need.”

“No!” I shout, and jump back from him. “I don’t want to go with you! I want to go home!”

The room’s gone silent now, all chattering ceased. And I’m starting to feel...dizzy. Unsteady. Like the one time Daddy took me sailing in the Chesapeake. Rolling around even though I’m standing right here.

“Now, now, let’s not make a scene.” That’s John’s voice, but I can barely see him. “If you just calm down, we can—”

“No!” I scream again, but the world is fading fast from my vision. Colors are swimming together, gravity going sideways, sounds melting into noise...

“Watch her head!” someone yells.

And I hit the ground.

Then blackness.