Page 10 of Anders (The Sunburst Pack #2)

Her hands were shaking as she pulled another volume from the shelf. This one was older, the binding cracked and faded. As she opened it, a loose page fluttered to the floor.

Etta bent to retrieve it, and the world tilted sideways. She grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself, blinking hard against the spots dancing in her vision.

The loose page was a photograph, brown with age. It showed a group of people standing in front of what she recognized as the Old Packhouse—though when they remembered, everyone called it the old community center when speaking to Etta.

She squinted at the image. The faces were unclear, but something about their poses struck her as familiar. The way they arranged themselves, with the larger figures protective at the edges, the smaller ones gathered in the center…

Like a pack protecting its —

The thought shattered as pain ripped through her head, worse than before. The photograph slipped from her nerveless fingers as she doubled over, pressing her fists against her temples.

Images flashed through her mind: moonlight on fur, the taste of blood, running through darkness on four legs—

No , something in her mind snarled, and the images vanished, replaced by a wave of nausea so intense she had to grab the trash can.

When the nausea passed, she found herself on her knees, gasping for breath. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like angry wasps, each flicker sending new spikes of pain through her skull.

She needed to get out of here. Needed air. Needed…

Etta staggered to her feet, using the shelves for support. Her vision blurred, but she could still make out the words on the page she’d been reading:

LOCAL LEGENDS SPEAK OF WOLF-MEN

Ancient Tales Tell of Shape-Shifting Warriors

The pain intensified until she thought her head would split open. She stumbled toward the door to the staircase but didn’t make it before her knees buckled.

Pain fractured Etta’s world into kaleidoscope pieces, each shard reflecting a different memory.

Soft fur against her cheek. The rumble of a gentle growl that meant love, not threat. Massive shapes curled around her tiny form, keeping her warm, keeping her safe .

No, she whimpered, trying to push the impossible image away. But the memory swept over her like a tide.

Her mother—not the prim woman who’d raised her in Montana, but someone else, someone who smelled of wildflowers and wilderness—nuzzling her face, making her giggle .

Her father—not the quiet accountant she remembered, but a huge man with laughing eyes—tossing her in the air, catching her with sure hands .

This isn’t real, she tried to say, but the words came out as a moan. What she was seeing couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be true.

Running through moonlight on unsteady legs, still learning to coordinate four paws instead of two feet .

That’s it, little one, came her mother’s voice in her head. You’re doing so well.

The memory shattered like glass, replaced by another.

Gunshots. The taste of blood and cordite in the air. Her mother’s voice, sharp with fear: Run, baby! Hide!

More shots. Her father’s massive form leaping forward, trying to protect them. Red blooming across his chest. Her mother’s scream of rage and grief .

No, Etta sobbed. Please, no.

Men in dark tactical gear swarming their home. Her mother’s body falling, human now, white-blonde hair—just like Etta’s own—stained red .

Target acquired, a cold voice said. Secondary objectives eliminated.

Rough hands grabbing her. The prick of a needle. Darkness .

The scene changed again, and Etta’s body convulsed as new memories crashed through her mind.

White walls. The sharp smell of antiseptic burning her sensitive nose. Men in lab coats looming over her, their faces hidden behind surgical masks .

Remarkable adaptive capabilities, one said, making notes .

Pain as they took samples, ran tests, pushed her small body to its limits .

Mama, she cried. Daddy! Help me!

Your parents are dead, a cold voice informed her. But don’t worry. We’ve found you a new family. Nice, normal people who will help you forget all about…this unfortunate business.

More needles. More tests .

The memory suppression is holding, someone said. Vital signs stable. Recommend proceeding with placement.

A new woman’s face swimming into view. Not her mother. All wrong. Wrong scent, wrong voice, wrong everything .

This is your mommy, the cold voice said. You’ve been very sick, but she’s here to take you home now.

No, she tried to say, but her tongue felt thick, her thoughts cloudy. Not my mama. Want my real mama.

Another needle. More darkness .

Etta’s entire body convulsed with the force of remembered trauma.

Anders! she heard someone scream—it was her own voice, she recognized dimly.

Another wave of memories drowned out the rest.

The labs. The tests. The endless needles .

Remarkable, they kept saying. The subject’s regenerative capabilities are unprecedented. And look how the chemical suppressants have evolved—the next generation of subjects should be even more responsive.

Next generation. More children like her. More families destroyed .

She wasn’t the first. Wasn’t the last .

Just one of many .

Etta. Anders’s voice cut through the chaos, anchoring her. Listen to my voice. Focus on me.

She tried, but the memories kept coming—fractured, broken.

Destructive.

Painful.

Other children. Some older, some younger. All with that same lost look in their eyes .

Where’s my mama?

I want to go home!

Please, it hurts!

One by one, they disappeared .

Placement successful, the cold voices said. Memory suppression holding.

A beast inside her surged forward, howling in rage and grief.