Taken

Chapter 14

They’ll be watching the fire escapes—it’s what I would do. His world of options was rapidly narrowing, and she wasn’t making it any easier by becoming limp deadweight whenever he slowed down enough for her to lean against anything. The smell was rough and clotted in his mouth, an old-rust corruption of spilled blood and rotting spice that raised almost every hackle he had. Then there was her smell—ice and moonlight sharpened into the scent of a triggered shaman, his triggered shaman. With a wide wine-dark river of fear boiling underneath and rasping against his nerves until he didn’t know whether to scream or hit something.

It didn’t help that Sophie was pale, visibly trembling, and all the sharp intelligence had gone out of those lovely gray eyes. Her glasses were still shiny, her hair was a wild mass of electric, beautiful curls, and the gray pencil skirt and sheer nylons over those sweetly curved legs was enough to make a man’s train of thought derail. But one glance at her pale, terrified face, fever spots of wild color high on her perfect cheeks—one of them slightly swollen, as if she’d been slapped—and the way she looked anywhere but at him, almost cowering if he made a sudden movement…

It was enough to make any man feel like tearing down a few brick walls to get at whatever had turned her into this.

Except he’d done a lot of it, by handling her in exactly the wrong way.

Her apartment spoke volumes. One armchair. A print of some painting that someone had probably taken pity on her with. One mattress and a pile of mismatched blankets, one pillow, five library books stacked next to the bed. Empty cupboards, two packages of ramen, four bags of frozen peas, one bag of bulk oatmeal. Nothing in her fridge but a quart of milk and a half-empty bottle of ketchup. There was some kind of froufrou scented candle on a small table next to the front door, half-burned and probably a gift, as well.

Five gray suits in her closet. A few pairs of sweats and one lone pair of jeans. He hadn’t gone poking through her underwear drawer, but he’d be willing to bet it was as empty as the rest of her apartment.

He knew what poverty and fear smelled like, and the sad little place reeked of it. There were two boxes of papers in her closet, neatly labeled in a round Palmer script, and he’d taken a peek at the one that said Divorce.

The bloodless language of the law almost managed to cover up something capable of making him sick.

With the beast screaming in his blood, he had handled her exactly, completely wrong. Time to start remedying that—if, of course, he could get her out of this death trap of an apartment building.

There was only one way to go, and it was up. He had to half carry her up the maintenance stairs, both because he was using inhuman speed and because her legs kept giving out. She was in a pair of black heels he’d be willing to bet were her second and last pair, since her first were in the van, and he hadn’t had time to get her into sneakers. God only knew where the outfit she’d had on a couple nights ago had come from.

Keep your mind on your problems, and not on her clothes. He paused, looking at an emergency exit and weighing his options. The building was five stories tall and they were on the fourth floor.

“God,” she whispered, right before she collapsed again and he hauled her up. “You lied to him.”

Duh. “Of course I did. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Is Zach really your name?”

Sharp girl. “It really is. The one I was born with, even.” Family name. We’ll get around to that.

“Why are the lights fuzzing out? And the…the things—” The only thing that alarmed him more than how pale she’d turned was the dreamy, disconnected way she was asking questions. “Like scarves.”

We hit the jackpot with you, honey, if you’re already seeing that. “You’re seeing the spirits, the majir. And the upir make the lights go. They prefer to hunt in darkness.”

“Hunt?”

“Us.”

“Oh.” She nodded, calmly enough, and drew a breath, as if to scream.

He couldn’t take the chance and shoved her against the wall, covering her mouth. The fine tremor running through her infected him, as well. His fist curled, and he stopped himself from ramming it through whatever paste was masquerading as walls around here just in time. “Listen.” A snarl ran under the words. Her throat-cut fear was teasing and taunting what little control he had left. “I need everything I’ve got to get us out of here. I’ll keep fighting as long as you stay with me. Right here.” He stared into her eyes, disregarding her glasses, pushed askew by his hand. “You stay with me. Understand?”

Something flared in her pupils. It was a spark, something struggling out from under the fear. He willed it to stay, but it was extinguished almost as soon as it came, and he heard the soft rotten drumming of their feet. More of them. Jesus, what’s going on here?

“Okay,” she whispered, when he peeled his fingers away. “Fine. Stay with you. All right.”

Relief warred with fresh rage inside his chest. She looked absolutely hopeless. “Good girl.” He did something he’d wanted to do since he’d seen her—leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, inhaled the smell of her hair. Clean, fresh, female—even with the sharp saw blade of fear underneath, it held the power to calm the animal inside him.

Goddammit, she smelled like she belonged to him, and he didn’t have time to take it easy, ease her along. The lights were dimming rapidly as the upir came up, floor by floor, a pressure like an approaching storm.

She blinked up at him, surprised, and some of the sense had come back into her pale eyes. “What did you do that for?”

Because I wanted to. “Come on.” Up the last flight of stairs, a locked door he kicked once and crumpled, metal tearing with a screech. Cold rainy air poured in as the lights failed completely, the night reaching into the building like spilled ink.

“They’re floating,” she whispered, in an awe-stricken little voice.

Oh, yeah. Hit the jackpot. She’s gonna be a live one if she’s seeing that so soon. Need to feed her and get her settled somewhere she can shaman-sleep. Wind cut across the rooftop, and he glanced out. The best bet was off across the flat expanse toward a likely corner. The three-story building over a narrow alley was the best route; it had cover and he’d be able to take that drop easily.

Still, he paused for a moment. There was nothing to be gained by running blindly. If he was hunting someone, he’d have a lookout on the roof.

There. A patch of foul-smelling shadow, drifting with the breeze, in the lee of an air-conditioning vent. Sophie shivered, actually moving closer to him and pulling her jacket close. He hadn’t even given her time to change her clothes.

Better start treating her nice, Zach. It’s your responsibility.

Yeah, sure, he told himself. First let’s get us out of here in one piece. Hard to treat her nice in the middle of a melee. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Okay?”

She nodded, curls falling in her face, and he had the urge to brush at them, see if they were as soft as they looked.

Then he dragged her out into the rain, deliberately stumbling as if he was drunk or wounded, and the lookout took the bait—just like he’d hoped. It came streaking out of the darkness, disturbing the flung silver pellets of icy rain, and Sophie didn’t even have time to scream before he shoved her down and away, grabbing two fistfuls of upir and letting the Change run inside him like glass daggers.

It answered one question, though. The blood-heavy parasite was a little older and more experienced than the rest, and it had come straight for Sophie, not even veering for Zach as the biggest threat.

They wanted her.

Its claws burned as it turned on itself, a rubbery snake of bloodlust; he took the hit without caring, low on the side, turning so it grated on ribs instead of opening up the vulnerable belly. In a normal fight this would be the time for noise, a roar to spur him on. But not now.

This was deadly serious, and deadly quiet, the only sounds Sophie’s hurt little cry and hitching breaths, the patter of rain, and the upir’s high shallow breathing, air whistling past shark-sharp teeth. Scuff of boot soles and whisper of fabric as they closed again, the Change roiling down his side in a tide of thorny oil, closing the rips and fueling speed and strength with the pain.

His clawed fingers found the vulnerable soft throat and wrenched; there was a gout of foul noisome black blood, and the body of his enemy fell as Sophie let out another thin wordless cry of warning.

I know, he wanted to tell her, don’t worry, but his mouth wasn’t shaped for human words right now, and in any case, there was no time. He turned and leaped, every iota of force applied to fling himself back toward her, hitting the highest point of the arc just as the other two upir collided with him. He wanted to knock them away from her and succeeded, landing cat-footed on all fours and snarling just once, shoulders hunching as his claws snicked against the rooftop.

Once was all the warning they were going to get.

They spread out, then feinted in, trying to get past him at the shaman, who had scrabbled back against the wall near the kicked-open door. He snapped at them, stalemate for a moment while he worked the geography of the rooftop around in his head and tested the wind for more of them. Backed up a little to give himself room, his body between the shaman and the twisty-coiling things that smelled of death and spiced rotting rust, their faces twisted plum-colored obscenities because they had dropped the mask of breathing humanity they once wore.

They snarled, and he snarled back, teeth bared and a series of glottal clicks filling his throat. This is mine, the animal in him said without words, a wash of musk and blood-tinted determination.

The taller one leaped at him, and instinct took over, tucking his chin and twisting his body aside, his own claws tearing through reeking blood-fat flesh. The body thumped to the rooftop and the second, smaller upir fled screeching.

Dammit. There goes my quiet exit. He straightened, the Change melting from him, and felt the cold slap of rain. The rage folded down quietly, the animal watchful and angry in its corner at the very bottom of him.

The shaman hunched, hugging herself, her eyes huge and dark with terror. He held out his hand, noticing for the first time the cold sweep of the wind. “Come on. We’d better get out of here.”

“Jesus,” she whispered. “Those—they were—”

“We are going to have to have a talk. They’re after you. We need to figure out why.”

“I haven’t done anything!” She was shivering, and in a little bit she’d be soaked. Her jacket was clinging over her blouse, and the way the wet cloth molded itself to her was not doing anything to help him concentrate.

“I know.” But maybe they don’t know that. “We’ve got to get away. Come on, Sophie.”

She reached up blindly, and touched him willingly for the first time. Her fingers slid through his, and an acrid thread of smoke reached his nostrils. Jesus. What the hell now?

For a terrible second he was years ago and far away, smelling smoke and hearing the awful shattering unsound of a shaman’s death. It took a deep breath he didn’t have time for and a wrenching physical shudder to bring himself back to the present.

Not this shaman. Not this time. This time, I’m going to do it right.

A moment’s worth of work got her to her feet, and he added up the rooftop again and arrived at the same answer. “You’re not going to like this, but we’re going to have to jump.”

She didn’t even protest, and that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Instead, she just nodded wearily. “Yeah. Sure.”

“It won’t take long,” he said, as if she had protested.

“You killed them.” She sounded numb, and was shivering so hard his own teeth wanted to chatter.

“Of course I did. They weren’t here to give you Christmas cards. No idea what they want?”

“None at all.” She slumped helplessly as he hurried her across the rooftop, reached up to push her glasses up her nose with a fingertip. The little movement made his heart do something funny inside his chest. “We’re jumping?”

“I’m jumping.” He eyed the distance between the two buildings and decided he could do it even if she passed out, but he’d have to Change a little. His stomach spoke unhappily, and he told it to shut up. The smell of smoke grew stronger, drifting up through the open door. Upir hated fire, why would something be burning?

I don’t like this. His stomach rumbled again, reminding him he needed to fuel the burn of the Change. He blinked away bad memories and the sick thumping of fear in his chest. Neither would help them.

First he’d get them the hell away from here. Then he’d feed both of them, and everything would be fine.

“I’m jumping,” he repeated, trying to reassure them both. “You just hold on.”