Winter Prey Read online

  Winter Prey

  T. M. Simmons

  Copyright © 2012 T. M. Simmons

  Cover Design: Copyright © 2012 Angela Rogers

  Misadvmom @ yahoo.com

  Original New Release

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or used in whole or in part by any means existing now or in the future, without permission from the author. Please respect the author's hard work. Piracy of copyright works is a crime.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  Discover Other Electronic Books by this Author

  Writing as T. M. Simmons:

  Silent Prey, Dark Paranormal Suspense, Coming Soon

  Ghost Hunting Diary Volume I, True Ghost Stories

  Ghost Hunting Diary Volume II, True Ghost Stories

  Ghost Hunting Diary Volume III, True Ghost Stories

  Dead Man Talking, Paranormal Mystery

  Dead Man Haunt, Paranormal Mystery

  Dead Man Hand, Paranormal Mystery (coming soon)

  Writing as Trana Mae Simmons

  Forever Angels, Paranormal Time Travel

  Witch Angel, Paranormal Time Travel

  Spellbound, Paranormal Romance

  Southern Charms, Paranormal Romance (March 2012)

  Montana Surrender, Historical Romance

  Bittersweet Promises, Historical Romance

  Mountain Magic, Historical Romance

  Town Social, Historical Romance

  Tennessee Waltz, Historical Romance

  Winter Dreams, Historical Romance

  Reviews:

  An intriguing theme, white-knuckle danger and emotionally charged characters — this book has it all. Mary Kennedy, author of The Talk Radio Mysteries

  Winter Prey is one of the crowning pieces of T.M. Simmons' writing. She's crafted an exciting tale of mysticism and monsters expertly interwoven with the spice of budding romance. Her love of the far-north Minnesota landscape and Native American culture shine through in every aspect of this book…The entire cast of characters is captivating, and even the windigo itself prowls off the page as a multifaceted monster with a troubled past and a new purpose this hunting season. From start to finish, Winter Prey is a supernatural thrill! A. D. Guzman, author of Ghosts in the Footprints anthology published by Hadley Rille Books.

  If you are a lover of action-packed stories of suspense or traditional horror, Winter Prey will keep you almost constantly on the edge of your seat…I think that my favorite part of this novel, though, grows out of the story’s nature. I am a devoted reader of horror fiction both classic and modern and, even though I might really enjoy a story, it is often pretty easy to figure out the building blocks that the author is using to tell their tale. In Winter Prey, however, Simmons takes some of the familiar elements of horror stories and turns them on their head, making the reader look at familiar situations in a completely new light.The overall result is a novel feels both familiar and fresh at the same time and that is one heck of an exciting read . I can’t wait for the sequel! Floyd Brigdon, Trinity Valley Community College, Department of English; She Never Slept, Assistant Editor

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As I've been mentioning everywhere I can, so I don't shock my readers: this book is not a romance or a mystery or a true ghost story similar to my prior books. It evolved from the dark entities I encountered in my life as a paranormal investigator, and at first, I wrote it for myself, not any publisher. For over two years, it niggled at me constantly, worse when I entered into the indie publishing world. I finally gave in and am sending it out into the world for my readers, old and new.

  Before I thank the friends from my paranormal life who helped Winter Prey grow in my Muse, I need to express my gratitude to several others:

  Dr. Mary Kennedy, clinical psychologist and author of The Talk Radio Mysteries, for her help with post-traumatic stress syndrome; Violet Woelfel for paramedic help; Retired Navy LC L. C. Metcalf and Retired Army Staff Sergeant K. P. (Butch) Cantner for their assistance as to the in's and out's of Armed Forces life; Mike Martinez for his wonderful brainstorming ability. The writers in the Terrell Writing League helped me polish and tweak my book. My first readers were Annie Riddle, and also A. D. Guzman, author of Ghosts in the Footprints anthology published by Hadley Rille Books.

  Three primary people accompanied me on the paranormal paths that led to Winter Prey taking shape:

  Aunt Belle Brown started me down the ghost hunting trail over twenty years ago. She has mentored me and stood beside me when we realized there were more than just interesting ghosts with whom to chat and help cross into The Light. That there were dark entities we respectfully feared and yet still dealt with head on, using our gifts and abilities to their full extent at times.

  Angela Rogers has also stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me as we performed strong ceremonies to protect our friends and their pets from evil. I can always count on her to have my back. She also designed the gorgeous and fitting cover for Winter Prey.

  Timmy Smith has shown courage even he himself wasn't aware of when we prowl into the paranormal world together. He's there with a steady hand on his camera and other equipment, a strong arm and stable spirit.

  There are numerous others who have traveled the paranormal path with me, a path which led to Winter Prey, and Silent Prey, a dark paranormal working its way to completion: My cousin, Cody Goodrich; fellow investigators, Billy and Lucy York, Michelle DePaul, and other hunters who accompanied me over the years and shared numerous experiences.

  I hope you enjoy this new T. M. Simmons persona that has evolved over time.

  DEDICATION

  To the Armed Forces personnel who

  protect our freedoms in our

  beautiful country

  Chapter 1

  It stirred. Sniffed. Then waited patiently until the long-dormant senses sharpened.

  Cold. The bitter temperature penetrated through the thick fur.

  Yet…not that cold. Not cold enough. The familiar frigidness of the giticmanidogizis month was missing.

  It stretched one cramped leg, turned over and sought the drowsiness prior to sleep and the deadened waiting time again.

  Something called. Faint. Persistent.

  It ignored the summons. For centuries It had known when to hunt, when to rest. Nothing controlled the hunting seasons except Its own inner senses. The time was not right.

  The summons came again. Its eyes opened and focused on the rock wall of the cave. Maybe…had the long-awaited time finally arrived?

  That barely recalled emotion — hope — moved It to a sitting position, feet planted on the icy cave floor, arms hanging between splayed knees. Muscles needing food balked when It tried to rise. There was one meal left from the last waking period….

  Eyes capable of vision in the dark scanned the cave, down the tunnel to the storeroom entrance, to where the first wakening meal waited. Always one left. Moldering and stringy by now, the blood dead and pooled, but enough of a body to fuel the first hunt in a new season. The hunts after that would feed the powers until they were full-force, and they would continue that way until Its thirst for revenge was satisfied for another four decades. Until inner instinct once again led It back to the lair.

  It forced itself onto shaky legs and shambled to the cave opening rather than the storeroom. There It gathered enough strength to push aside the boulder across the entrance. Hardwood trees rose stark and leafless against a gray sky, dark-green pines the only color. Nothing marred the snowdrifts other than small animal and bird
prints. Larger animals steered clear of Its cave; had for centuries.

  The far off brrrrr of sound reached Its highly-attuned ears. It frowned as Its head jerked toward the noise, but the thing breaking the deep silence was even too far away for Its sharp vision.

  It despised each new thing the prey devised during Its sleeping periods. For eons, only dogs pulling sleds had carried the prey through this wild land. Then It began to notice new wooden shelters built so close together a shout could be heard from one to the other. Later, the buildings lined up closer, mirroring the campsites Its people had settled their nasaogans in. Three seasons ago, when forced to track prey close to a group of those wooden shelters, It had encountered a strange, stinking beast. The thing rolled along a new iron path that scarred the land on four round black wheels, belching out a poisonous odor, a human steering it as it pulled numerous other four-wheeled conveyances.

  The next hunt, metal birds appeared in the sky, small ones with one or two humans inside them. The hunt after that, huge ones were sighted, and keen vision allowed It to see the belly full of men, women, even babies.

  This early morning scene today confirmed the suspicion It had awakened early. A rabbit skittered away, snow flying, fur a light tan shade, not the pure white needed for invisibility in the deep winter months. The drifts were soft, not hard-packed with a firm skin from melt and re-melt. In the far expanse stood a doe, slim belly not yet filling out with fawn.

  The manidogizisons month, not giticmanidogizis, when this existence began. Buried memories from another time told It the accustomed waking month, the one of heavier, silent snows, was still a few weeks away.

  Jagged ice flows, shaped by waves tossing in the windy days of early winter, fanned outward from the shoreline of the massive lake near the lair. But clear vision recognized the lack of ice depth in the middle. Not safe to cross until the coming bitter giticmanidogizis month worked weather magic.

  It could be out there in the middle to test the depth in a second. No need to stay long enough for Its weight to threaten the ice. Not yet, though. No sense wasting Its present strength in that sort of flash movement. Later would be soon enough.

  It should also wait until later to eat, gain strength and surface for this hunt. Only one meal remained. Too early and the season would catch It unprepared for the next length of sleep. It moved the boulder back in place and retraced the path to the dry leaf and pine bough bed.

  No. Now. Eat now.

  It stared around, brows lowered in a frown of suspicion. Nothing could be in here. It detected no unrecognized smell, saw no stir of a shadow. The words came from nothing visible. Did not even sound, except inside Its head. This had to be the summons It had waited season after season for. The hope of finding proof that could decide Its final path.

  It shuffled past the deep body dent in the bed, on down the tunnel. No door, only a crack in the wall barely large enough for the huge being It had become. On the other side, the cave room spread wide, filled with spears pointing down from the ceiling and up from the stone floor, here and there a familiar one an inch or so longer, or higher, than when It first entered this half-death, half-existence. It remembered. Its survival depended on memories.

  Human skeleton bones crunched under Its feet, some broken from previous trips to the inner lair, others eroded to near dust. Fresher ones — those from the last season — still retained a slight smell from bits of gristle left uneaten.

  But Its nose twitched not at the old smells. Instead, It searched for the set-aside carcass, the one left to begin the new season.

  Something else, though. Something fresher. Too fresh. New blood. It hadn't smelled that odor in forty years, not since It hung the last two human carcasses from descendants of the age-old enemy, fed on one, saved the other.

  Chapter 2

  Kymbria James gazed down at the tiny seven-month-old child sleeping amidst pink blankets and sheets, little hands curled beside her silky black hair. Only the dim glow of two night lights lit the room, but outside, a full moon silvered snow and reflected through the curtain-covered windows, adding a measure of illumination to the crib.

  Kymbria couldn't do this.

  She had to do it.

  Stoically, Kymbria clenched her fists and fought the urge to lean down and brush her lips over the satiny forehead. Most of the time, Risa slept soundly, her tummy full, her need for loving and touching satisfied by either Kymbria or her mother, Niona. Other nights, the slightest sound would bring the baby wide awake — and Risa was a cranky waker. In a piercing cry, she demanded attention, then immediately settled into babbling and waving her arms at whoever answered the call. Many nights Kymbria and Niona met over the crib, each stifling a yawn and reaching for the baby. Tonight, Kymbria fervently hoped to leave without notice.

  She glanced at the connecting doors. Past the one across the hallway, her mother slept; Kymbria claimed her old room beside Risa's. They both left the doors ajar so they could hear the smallest peep of discontent from the baby. For the next couple weeks — oh, lord, let it only be a couple weeks — Niona alone would answer that call, should it come.

  Despite her valiant efforts, a tear slipped down Kymbria's cheek. Her arms ached with the suppressed yearning to gather the warm bundle up and nestle her nose in the downy hair. No matter how many times she had heard that no words on earth could describe a mother's love for her child, the actual experience was awe-inspiring.

  Who would have thought she could love this child so deeply? Risa was adopted through an extensive measure of blood, sweat and tears of hope, fear and doubt. Since her teens, Kymbria had lived with the knowledge she would never bear her own child. Then hope sprang free that she could open the barrier over the hole where she had buried all the love she longed to cascade on a daughter or son. Along with it, though, also came fear all her pleas to the powers holding Risa's future in their hands would fall on bureaucratic deafened ears. Later, different doubt quickly followed, doubt of her ability to be the type of mother who would help Risa carve out a wonderful life for herself.

  But all paled before the deep burn of love Kymbria felt at only a slight passing thought of her new daughter, let alone what the actual sight of this infant did to her emotions.

  None of the previous problems and insecurities mattered now. She was well on her way to being Risa's mother, both legally and in her heart — if she could only emerge victorious in what had to be her final mission. The most important mission she'd undertaken in her entire life, including twenty-two years as an Army RN counseling post traumatic stress soldiers horridly damaged from their encounters in hostile situations.

  She gave in at least to the urge to gently pull the blanket up a bit higher on Risa.

  "Sleep well, angel," Kymbria barely whispered. "Mommy loves you."

  ~~~

  Three-and-a-half hours later, Kymbria was a hundred-and-fifty miles north of Duluth, Minnesota, where her mother and daughter slept. Her only companion in the four-wheel-drive SUV was Scarlet, curled on the passenger seat. The Irish Setter had been with them since shortly after Risa arrived, adopted into their family while Lieutenant Colonel Kymbria James, R.N., Combat Nurse, battled her emotional demons with an Army-assigned psychiatrist. She'd debated about bringing the dog, since Risa would miss it, but her need for at least something from the pleasurable side of her life won out.

  By now, Kymbria had planned on being at the cabin where the family had spent pleasant summers getting in touch with their Native American roots after nine months in the white world. But — perhaps a subconscious blunder — she had fallen asleep and forgotten to set the alarm. The bright star pinpricks were fading as the sky grayed, and soon the first signs of color would blush on the eastern horizon to her right. Already she could make out the piles of snowdrifts on the side of the road, huge pines and leafless hardwoods towering into the sky.

  Her fingers tightened on the SUV's steering wheel and she glanced at the console as her satellite phone rang. Caller ID indicated her mother had wo
ken and found her note. Scarlet jumped into the backseat. The setter hated the phone ring vibrating against her sensitive ears.

  Kymbria drove on down the two-lane highway without answering. Niona would continue to call, and Kymbria couldn't — wouldn't — continue to not answer. But she refused to be distracted by talking on the phone or texting while driving. Her mother understood that…not that it would appease her for long if Kymbria didn't return the call. Still, for a while, Niona would be busy with Risa, since the baby was surely awake, also, by now. Risa was their alarm most mornings.

  Risa. Oh, God, I love you. How am I going to stay away? But I have to.

  The call went to voice mail. She could have pulled to the side of the road, but refused the urge.

  "Coward," she murmured. "You're more afraid of Mom than the terrorists in Afghanistan." She chuckled half-wryly through the lingering pain of not allowing herself to hear her mother's voice and ask about Risa. Her mother could stir up a firestorm almost as horrific as a horde of enemies.

  Coward she had been, though, when she slipped out of the house at three a.m. where Scarlet waited in the car with the engine running for warmth. The garage was on the far side of the large house, where there was little chance of Kymbria's furtive leave-taking waking Niona. She'd left a note, of course, saying where she was going and who she would meet, although Niona had probably guessed the moment she spied the piece of paper propped on Kymbria's neatly-made bed.

  They had talked about her going, but Niona insisted she wait until spring, the season of renewal, when the spirits would guide her quest with the most strength. Then two weeks ago, during the trip the Army psychiatrist Smith had assigned her for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder therapy —