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  Punished

  Crescent City Creatures, Book 1

  Samantha Stone

  Published 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62210-273-0

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2015, Samantha Stone. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Raphael Saar is an exiled werewolf, a convict on the direct path to a death sentence—for a crime he didn’t commit. He doesn’t care, so long as he can end the human trafficking ring kidnapping women across New Orleans.

  Recovering from a horrific tragedy, one particularly bad day for Mary Newman has stretched into months. A nanny for a wealthy family in New Orleans, she can’t understand why she’s being constantly humiliated by her boss until the night she learns that he’s not human—and neither is she.

  Only Raphael can save her from the monster feeding from her misery, but will Mary be able to stop his execution?

  Punished teams up werewolves, banshees, a wompus cat and a haint in order to rid New Orleans of a group of immortals determined to hurt the city’s women and kill Raphael’s pack.

  Dedication

  For my mom, RJ, who showed me the importance of reading. What a gift.

  Acknowledgements

  A huge thank you to:

  Ansley, for taking a chance on me.

  Victoria, for being such a wonderful editor.

  Charles, for encouraging me every step of the way.

  All the LSB authors—you’re so incredibly encouraging.

  And finally, Johnny. You know why.

  Chapter 1

  “You’re going to be executed.” Raphael’s oldest friend, Heath, got in his face, a hairsbreadth away from pressing their noses together. “Do you understand that?”

  Raphael knew he was a screwup, had known for hundreds of years. Lately, he’d gone too far.

  He didn’t care.

  Raphael shrugged before he turned his back on his friend. Heath slammed into him from behind, his fist swinging toward Raphael’s face. Raphael’s punch landed first, knocking Heath back, his four rings drawing thin lines of blood.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Alexandre approached them, surprise apparent in his voice.

  Raphael let himself be dragged back only because he knew his friends wouldn’t let this go until he told them what they wanted to hear.

  “I won’t do it again,” he lied, feeling absolutely no remorse.

  “Do what?” Alex asked.

  “He’s been killing mortals.”

  Raphael didn’t cringe at his friends’ shock and disgust. “They deserved to die,” he growled.

  “You can’t be the judge of that,” Heath said seriously. “When we abuse our strength, we die.”

  “I stopped abuse,” Raphael said. He was cold, emotionless. No, not completely emotionless. He felt rage, and let it guide him. A small part of him remembered he shouldn’t hurt his friends. Another part of him wanted to hurt them for defending those who merited no defense. Those who didn’t only deserve to die, but deserved to be mindless in their pain, begging for death before it was mercifully bestowed upon them.

  Three weeks ago, he’d seen the condition those women were in. They’d tried to tear past him on Canal Street, barefoot with tangled hair. It had taken Raphael three hours to convince them to speak with him, and another two hours for them to understand that he wanted to help. Women should never be so rightfully terrified.

  They hadn’t yet been touched, or Raphael may have burned downtown New Orleans to the ground. But they had been drugged, kidnapped and tied together in a run-down house on Esplanade Avenue.

  Heath was right. If Raphael were caught breaking the rules, he would be killed. He, like Alexandre, Heath and the rest of his friends, were werewolves. More importantly, they were in a clan prohibitum, meaning they weren’t allowed to simply live their lives. They were exiled criminals bound to New Orleans and monitored by Jeremiah, their lupus dux, and forced to adhere to specific rules. They couldn’t kill humans, and could only harm immortals in self-defense.

  The rules had been created to better control the uncontrollable, to protect weaker humans, and lower the body count caused by criminal werewolves. If the exiled refused to comply, there was a simple solution, a threat that hung over Raphael’s head each day: death.

  Raphael had chosen this life, known that his very existence hinged on how well he could follow orders. Others, like Heath, were forced to join the clan as punishment for a crime.

  The irony. Raphael would now die for allegedly breaking laws he so wholeheartedly agreed with.

  And die I will. He clenched his fists. It’s better me than them.

  Should he tell the rest his pack what he’d found, all five of them would be dead men walking.

  He would end this operation alone.

  “You know what? Let’s shelf this discussion for tomorrow.” Alexandre thumped Raphael and Heath on their shoulders, turning them toward the door of the old firehouse they lived in. “It’ll make great hangover talk because it’s about time for me to head out, and I’ve decided you two will be my wingmen.” Had he not known Alexandre so well, Raphael wouldn’t have realized his grin was strained.

  Raphael cut a look at Heath, who rolled his green eyes.

  “Hey! We’re going out; are you assholes coming?” Alex yelled from the pole just before the door.

  “No,” shouted Cael, a shut-in who was barely seen by any but the clan.

  “I guess Sebastian isn’t home,” Alex said. “Typical.”

  They stepped out onto South St. Peters, turning toward the Quarter. “I won’t forget,” Heath murmured, his eyes narrowed.

  Raphael ignored him. He didn’t plan to stay with Heath and Alex long. He’d incapacitated all of the underlings involved in kidnapping the girls, but he knew he hadn’t yet cut the head from the snake. He also had to make sure there weren’t more kidnapped women. He had much to do, and now that Jeremiah had found out about the dead humans, he had a strict timeline in which do it.

  * * * *

  An unwelcome hand grazed Mary Newman’s back, lowering until she finished pouring sherry into the unfamiliar man’s turtle soup. Her humiliation was tangible; she wanted to crawl under the table and shield herself with white linen until all the guests went home.

  Did she have easy written across her forehead? Why do they keep doing that?

  She moved around the ornate Mackenzie-Childs table, careful not to accidentally kick a hand-painted leg. Ten drink orders and eight soups later, she excused herself to pour their drinks. Safe at the butler’s pantry, she gripped the cool granite counter tightly, the blood receding from her fingers.

  I need this job, she repeated to herself, over and over again. We need it. The thing was, serving wasn’t her job. She was a nanny for the Van Otterloo family. Their four-year-old daughter, Molly, had originally been her only charge.

  She much preferred the delightful child—who’d only tried to set heinously expensive curtains aflame twice—to the men Richard Van Otterloo constantly invited over. It was the third time this week Mary had been felt up; she simply didn’t understand it, didn’t know what she could do dif
ferently to prevent them from touching her.

  There was nothing overtly sexual about her appearance. She wore loose black slacks and a white button-down, which she’d done up to her neck. It was the uniform the Van Otterloos requested for instances when she helped serve dinner parties and after-dinner drinks.

  “We may ask you to every month or so,” Richard’s wife, Natasha, had said eleven months ago, right before they hired Mary. At first, Natasha’s words were truthful. After a few months, they asked her to serve their guests at an increasing rate. Now she donned her uniform almost every day.

  Over the course of the next three hours, she served the main course of grilled flounder filets and a delicious-smelling dessert she couldn’t pronounce if she tried, followed by after-dinner drinks. Finally, she was able to pull off her stained apron, which hadn’t protected her shirt, and dragged herself over to the small house her sister and she shared. She’d asked for this night off, hoping to see her sister’s biggest dance performance of the semester.

  “We feed and house you,” Richard had said. “You have the best gig any uneducated twenty-five-year-old can hope for. You aren’t too good to serve a little dinner party, are you?”

  “No,” was all Mary could say, her pride stinging. “I’m not.”

  The mention of her education still hurt. Three years ago, long before she kept Molly, Mary had been two months from graduating Summa Cum Laude from LSU. She’d been accepted into every graduate program she applied to, and planned to relocate to a top school in Rhode Island.

  Then her parents were murdered.

  Her sister was a senior in high school, four months from turning eighteen.

  Mary had done what she had to do—take care of Leila. For two years, she’d worked two jobs and tutored on the side, only to barely make a dent in the mountain of debt they now had to bear, all the while living in a part of town where she’d been afraid to come home after her night shifts.

  Richard was right—she couldn’t hope for better. Now she made three times as much as she used to. Leila and she lived rent-free in a carriage house behind a mansion on St. Charles Avenue. She was given what to wear and told what to eat. She made herself dye her hair.

  Now she served dinner parties and men’s cocktails.

  Fingering a dry piece of chocolate-colored hair, Mary realized she hadn’t had a day off in eight months. She knocked before entering her sister’s room, where Leila was taking pins out of her hair.

  A blue orchid lay on the table beside her vanity, the sight causing Mary’s apology to die on her lips.

  “Who’s that from?” Mary asked, hoping it was from supportive friends.

  Richard, Leila signed. Mary’s stomach sank. Aren’t they beautiful?

  Mary sighed. Leila adored Richard, who had helped her receive a scholarship at Tulane for dance. When that financial burden had lifted, Mary was thrilled. She’d mistakenly thought Richard must be the most generous man alive.

  “She deserves it,” he’d said, waving off her thanks. “How often do you see a dancer who is both talented and deaf? She’s earned every penny.”

  He was right—Leila worked harder than any of the other dancers in her program. She’d earned the money and praise not because she was deaf, but because she was that good. The scholarship committee Richard introduced Leila to agreed.

  Even so, Mary feared for her after next year’s graduation. Every day it became clearer that kind gestures came at a price. She didn’t want her life for Leila, who’d already lost so much. Nothing should stand in the way of her sister’s dreams.

  Leila looked at her expectantly.

  “How’d it go?” Mary asked.

  I nailed it, Leila signed, smiling proudly. Yet, she didn’t appear happy.

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  After it was over, everyone went to the Spotted Cat. No one asked me to come, again.

  None of the dancers in her program knew the manual code for English, the signs Leila used. They complained about her translator, finding her rapid hand movements distracting during rehearsals. Mary knew every complaint and dirty look was a blow to Leila. She was sure the pettiness stemmed from jealousy—she herself had heard the dancers sputter, disgust marring their normally beautiful faces.

  “How can she be that good? It’s just not fair. She can’t even hear the music,” they would snarl. Leila didn’t need a translator to understand every cruel word they said. She had a cochlear implant that allowed her to hear, and she could talk if she wanted to. Only speech took effort and therapy neither of them could afford. Leila hadn’t said a word since the night of their parents’ deaths.

  Mary couldn’t blame her. Leila had been there when they were killed. She wouldn’t speak or sign about it—not to Mary or the police.

  “Want to go out with me?” Mary asked, hoping to cheer Leila up. “We’ll have a better time than those divas.”

  Where do you want to go?

  “How about Thump?”

  Thump was a new club on Bourbon Street, replacing some bar even a television show couldn’t fix. Mary had heard about it for weeks, and had secretly wanted to go. The word was that men who looked like Greek gods could be found there.

  And she’d had enough of forty-year-old men in stuffy suits.

  In that case, we both need to change, Leila signed. She smiled, the action lighting up her face.

  Freeing her hair of its ponytail, Mary looked in the mirror above her chest of drawers. In an effort to make herself look unappealing, she never dared to wear a speck of makeup. There was nothing to cover the subtle bruises under her eyes, causing them look a more piercing green. Straight dark hair hung to her waist, the blonde already peeking through at her crown and in strands around her face. I need to buy more dye.

  She changed into a tank top and low-slung jeans that used to be snug but now inched their way down her hips, making her pull on a belt. Mary didn’t enjoy baring her skin anymore. She wished it wasn’t too hot outside for a sweater.

  You look frumpy, Leila signed. She had on a glittering blue micro-mini with a halter top to match, the blue only a shade darker than her eyes. The hours she danced every day showed, slim muscles covering her lithe frame. The white-blonde hair hanging over her shoulders made Mary want to weep.

  I want my hair back, but sometimes what you want doesn’t matter. “Good,” Mary said.

  * * * *

  Hardcore rap played so loud that the floor vibrated. Thump, apparently, referred to the bass Mary could feel in her bones. Leila seemed to have forgotten about her disappointment; she danced with a different man every song, looking every bit like a woman who danced every day of her life. Utter joy radiated from her, just like it did every time she danced.

  A pang of guilt hit Mary. I should have been there today. She wished she’d stood up to Richard and gone to Leila’s recital.

  Mary smiled as Leila made her way over to her place at the bar.

  Why aren’t you dancing? Leila signed.

  It was so loud Mary didn’t attempt to speak aloud. I’m just tired. I’ll come out when I finish my drink.

  Leila finished it for her, raising her eyebrows over the rim of the cup. Let’s go, after you buy me one of those.

  Unease settled over Mary like a cloak. Now that she was in vicinity of the dance floor, men eyed her like she was a Bloody Mary they had a craving for. She was so sick of that look, she could spit. It was why she never wore makeup—between Richard and his friends, she was under constant scrutiny. Lip gloss and even skinny jeans were an invitation for straying hands. It wasn’t their fault, she had invited it by the way her hair swung above her ass as she walked. She shouldn’t walk that way, taunting innocent men with the movement of her hips.

  She’d learned. She learned more every time she brought the men cocktails.

  She knew she stood as stiff as a board. Her upper lip had certainly thinned in the way her mother used to, not unkindly, say was unattractive. When she thought she felt a hand nearing her, she lurched
away, causing her to almost fall into the crowd of dancers, drinks sloshing and curses following behind her.

  Then she saw him. He stood almost a head taller than all the other men in the club, but he wasn’t thin. He had a massive chest that tapered to lean hips and muscular thighs, all encased in matte black. His hair matched his clothes and she couldn’t make out his eyes, even when the strobe lights flashed, but she was sure they were as dark as his hair. Unlike the other men in the room, he looked like it was just as hard for him to be there as it was for her. He didn’t appear bored, but as if there was somewhere else he had to be, and it was not here. His grimace was feral; she thought she saw a fleeting slash of bared white teeth.

  He frowned at the two men on either side of him. All three seemed to spend the majority of their time at the gym. The man on the right was slightly unhappy, but less angry than his friend. He was leaner than the other two, with sandy brown hair and slitted eyes. Tattoos sleeved one of his arms. The man on the right reminded Mary of Thor, with blond hair curling to his shoulders, his blue eyes sparkling as he ignored his friends’ ire. How he was so cheerful in the midst of the Angst Brothers’ tempers, she didn’t know. She couldn’t help but notice Thor still seemed dangerous, despite his smile. He’s just the friendliest of the three. She decided not to cross any of them.

  Suddenly the dark man turned his head, meeting her gaze. She’d been caught staring. She felt a blush creep up from her chest as she quickly dragged her eyes away. Going to avoid that corner of the room.

  Leila finally stopped, satisfied with her new place on the dance floor. Mary stood there, anxious about what to do. She hadn’t thought she would be expected to dance. Panic rose. The music was too loud, there were too many people, too many hands around her, reaching toward her…

  A hand waved in front of her face. Leila.

  You’re going to dance with me, she signed. Eat your hearts out, men of NOLA!

  Leila grabbed Mary’s hands and lifted her arms up, moving her hips to the heavy bass. Her gaze implored Mary to copy her. She complied, shoving thoughts of handsy old men to the back of her mind. Mary would have fun tonight. She deserved some good in her life.