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Monstrous- The Complete Collection
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Monstrous
The Complete Collection
Sawyer Black
David W Wright
Copyright © 2017 by Sterling & Stone
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Monstrous I
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Monstrous II
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Monstrous III
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Ready for More?
Author’s Note
A Special Request
About the Authors
Chapter One
“Will it be scary?” Amélie asked.
“No.” Henry laughed. “Definitely not.”
“Then I don’t wanna hear it.”
“What? That’s crazy talk! Last night you begged me to stop because you said I was scaring you. This morning you practically yelled at me, saying I should know better than to tell you stories that give you nightmares.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind right now.”
Henry rolled his eyes, leaned past his daughter, grabbed the e-reader from her nightstand, then flicked to ForNevermore, the story he’d been reading aloud for the last week. He never should’ve started. It wasn’t appropriate for children, at least not a ten-year-old. But after he’d spent nine of Amélie’s first decade alive on the road, touring at every club with an opening and trying to build a name that might eventually mean something, Henry had a difficult, if not impossible, time saying ‘no’ to his baby girl.
“It’s too scary. I’m not giving you any more nightmares.”
“It’s not too scary. I promise.” She folded her fingers together and made her eyes wider. “Actually, Daddy, it’s scarier if you don’t read it, since I’ll have to make up the story in my head. The real bad stuff can’t be as bad as whatever I’ll make up, and then you’ll really be in trouble.”
Henry laughed again. With all there was to love about Amélie, an ability to craft a winning argument was certainly one of her finest qualities. Truth was, he did want to finish the story. He loved it when her face froze, as he whispered the scariest parts, and how she clung to his body the moment he tried to leave.
Now that Henry was mostly home, days stretched differently. They were shorter when Amélie was around and longer when she wasn’t. There were endless afternoons when Henry felt like he waited all day to read to his daughter. At ten, Amélie was growing too fast, or at least not slow enough to help Henry shed the pounds of guilt he carried for being away so much during the years that mattered most. He hated how time always flew, never needing fuel. He fell asleep each night thinking of the hours with Amélie he never had, and woke in the mornings counting ways he could fix what was broken or fill what was missing.
Days turned into weeks and months to years, barely breathing through the hours on their way. Amélie would be eighteen before he knew it. All the money in the world couldn’t stop time from bleeding or allow him to hold Amélie closer once it came time for her to leave the nest.
It’s not fair.
Part of Henry wanted to pull his baby girl from school and get her a full-time tutor so he could see her when he wanted. But that wasn’t fair, either, and he didn’t want to make his shit hers. Because he had only so much time with Amélie, Henry celebrated stories, knowing they were one of the best ways to stretch minutes and make them easier to remember.
“Okay, then. One more night. But if you have nightmares, we’re reading Clifford tomorrow.”
Amélie laughed. “No. Way.”
“You’re assuming it won’t be good, but that’s a faulty assumption,” Henry said, his face stone-serious. “I picked up a new Clifford just today, and I was planning to read that since you were so scared last night. In this one, Clifford eats some bad dog food after Emily Elizabeth tries to save money by buying it in bulk. Poor Clifford ends up going nuts and eating every kid on Birdwell Island.”
Still giggling, Amélie said, “I haven’t read Clifford in five years, but that sounds like one worth reading. Maybe after ForNevermore.”
Henry smiled, then tapped the e-reader’s screen, opening the book to where they’d left off the evening before. “Ready?”
“Ready!”
Henry cleared just one sentence from the story before something moved his attention from the words to the door. He lowered the e-reader and turned to Amélie. “Did you hear that?”
The sound wasn’t especially loud, nowhere near a crash. It wa
s barely there. Unworthy of intrusion into his story. Yet, in that narrow margin between blinks, Henry knew something was wrong.
Amélie shrugged. “Maybe? It sounded like something might’ve fallen. Mommy’s probably home and carrying too much stuff. Keep reading.” She smiled, quietly begging for Henry to finish and turn his back on distraction, which he often found so hard to do.
He started the second sentence as his inner whisper insisted that he stand and investigate. Then he finished the paragraph, with his stomach churning.
Their new home still made Henry uncomfortable. If there was such a thing as too much house, Henry had bought it. Sure, it was grand to have a pool, a movie room, and a dishwasher big enough to rinse a flying saucer, but the place was so goddamned massive it felt more like a museum, especially at night. There were many things he missed about their old house — being able to run to the front door and help Samantha when she came home late with groceries was only one.
Not feeling guilty for his everyday extravagance was like a hundred of the other.
Henry shook the discomfort from his shoulders, then returned to the story, making it one more sentence before he was interrupted by a far-off crash. “I think Mommy’s home, honey. Mind if I go check?”
“Why do you need to see if she’s home? She’ll be up in a minute, just like always.”
“Yes, but she might forget to bring your surprise.”
Amélie smiled. “What surprise?”
“You know the rule about spoiling surprises,” Henry whispered. "I’ll be back in a second, okay?”
“One. … It’s been a second.”
“Amélie …”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“Be right back.” Henry leaned in, kissed her on the cheek, then set the e-reader on Amélie’s nightstand and left the room, wondering what sort of surprise he’d be able to find and bring back upstairs.
He stepped into the hallway, calling to Sam, a panic he couldn’t explain getting worse with every step.
“Sam! Are you home? Samantha!”
Once Henry stopped touring, getting Amélie down at bedtime had become his thing. Sam capitalized on the final part of the evening by using it to finish lingering errands. But she always had most of the day, too, which made Henry hate it that she left the house so late, when stores started closing and lights went dim. The hours bad shit started to happen. Sam said his needless worry, fueled by paranoia, was a fair trade for a mostly-empty supermarket.
Henry reached the end of the hallway, stepped onto the winding stairway, and cast his eyes down into the foyer as he began his descent. He froze halfway down, a second before the scream that was loud enough to peel paper from the walls — a scream that would surely bring his daughter to the stairs.
“I said, don’t make a fucking sound.” One of two men on either side of Samantha was gripping her hair with one hand, pressing the gun in his other hard into her temple. He was thin and bald, wearing all black. His eyes were tiny but fierce.
Who the fuck are these people?
For a second, Henry figured they were burglars. They were dressed identically in black pants, shirts, and gloves. But no masks. Henry wished he’d not let Sam talk him out of buying a gun. Now he was standing at the top of the stairs, helpless.
Sam looked like she was doing everything possible to hold her whimper inside, but it fell out anyway. The second thug was a barrel of a man, with a keg for a body and a bulldog’s face. He raised a fist dyed blue with tattoo ink and pointed at Samantha’s face. “I’d shut the fuck up if I were you. Loud sounds make my friend here jumpy.”
Henry raised his hands, palms facing the front door, then started descending the stairs, his heart beating harder with every step.
He could stop this from happening, maybe make everything okay.
There were two thugs, and they didn’t know about Amélie upstairs … yet.
He had to keep it that way.
“Stop it right there.” Tiny Eyes moved his gun from Sam’s temple, then shoved her toward the bulldog, who drew his pistol and jammed it under her chin while Tiny Eyes turned his weapon on Henry.
Henry stopped, four stairs from the bottom, eyes flitting from the bulldog to his partner as he wrestled with the odds of chancing another step. “Let’s all stay cool, okay? You can have whatever you want.” He lowered his body a stair. “Help me help you. You want it, I can give it to you. You just gotta let me know what it is you’re looking for. Let my wife go so we can talk.”
Henry took another step, suddenly realizing the depth of their danger. The men weren’t wearing masks, and that meant witnesses.
Samantha looked up, quiet tears streaking her face, eyes shining on Henry with the same belief that had brightened his darkest moments, the faith that he would always make everything right. The light of unflinching confidence kept them trucking through a dozen years of struggle, from back when they barely had a buck to buy milk for Amélie or to pay bills that had hung above them like a water-rotted roof.
Like always, Sam expected him to fix things. Because he always had. But it was only because of her that he had succeeded. She always believed in him, even if he didn’t.
He didn’t believe he could do it, not this time.
Maybe this time her faith meant nothing.
This time there were two men, and they were both holding guns.
Henry took another two steps.
“Stop right there, asshole!” Tiny Eyes yelled, aiming his gun at Henry’s forehead.
Bulldog’s giant fist disappeared into Sam’s hair. “One more step, Punchline, and Mrs. Punchline gets it.”
So, it’s not random. They know who I am.
Sam whimpered.
Henry was too slow and out of shape to fight, but assholes could often be bought. “Just let me get to the safe. You can’t open it without me. There’s enough in there to keep you happy for a long, long time.”
As Henry’s right foot landed on the polished marble floor at the bottom of the stairs, his attention was yanked back by a barely-there voice from behind and above him. “Daddy?”
He turned and saw Amélie standing at the top of the staircase. Another “Daddy!” But this one was a scream. Henry spun toward the front door to follow her gaze, just as the blow slammed into the back of his head.
Henry dropped to his hands and knees, his teeth slamming together on his tongue.
His mouth filled with copper, and blood warmed his neck, gushing from the split in his skull, spreading in a pool under his sagging head. At first, his shadow made the blood appear black.
Behind him, Amélie screamed.
Henry gasped, sucking air through his teeth as the world shook around him, turning dark at the edges as pints of crimson syrup spilled across the pristine floor. Sam screamed. Amélie’s voice joined her mother’s in an alarming harmony.
Bulldog said, “Somebody shut these bitches up!”
All I have to do is force myself to stand. I’ve been standing up for years.
Pain is only temporary.
Despite the gunman standing over him, Henry struggled to push himself up. He caught a glimpse of the third man rushing up the stairs toward Amélie.
Stay the fuck away from her!
His fingers slipped in his own blood, and his hands shot out from under him. His forehead cracked against the heavy tile, and his vision turned to white light.
Amélie shrieked.
Oh God, no!
He tried to get up again, blood from a cut over his eyebrow pattering into the smeared puddle beneath him.
He turned his head toward the approaching footsteps, rolling his eyes up to see who it was. Nausea twisted his gut, vomit rising into his throat. Tiny Eyes knelt with his knee next to Henry’s shoulder. “Who said you could get up?”
The gun against the back of his head made his shoulders draw up, a chill spreading across his chest.
A sudden flash of pain and thunder, and Henry’s world went dark.
Chapter Two
Except it wasn’t his house. At least, not like he remembered or could have imagined it. There was too much light to make sense. Fuzzy shapes of walls and furniture. Familiar but fluid, toying with geometry, as if there was no gravity to ground them.
He rose from the marble, trying to focus through the blur. His throat was desert-dry, and his entire body tingled. Like the house around him, he barely felt there.
“Samantha!” he called out. "Amélie!”
The words echoed oddly. The thick air left his lungs, and his voice whistled in the emptiness, twisting itself into a sound that returned as something else, as unintelligible as the shapes.