Taken

Chapter 15

He settled in a chair by the window, propping his wet, booted feet up on the sill. Sophie sat on the bed, staring at the blank screen of the television. The room was warm, and she wondered why the entire world still looked like it was wrapped in gauze.

The night was a confusing jumble. She remembered an all-night restaurant, a club sandwich he’d badgered her into eating, and the rain driving against the windows. A long street with lights burned out, and him pushing her against the side of a building and laying a warning finger on her lips, while something black and twisted slid past their hiding place—a slice of darkness that seemed suddenly far too small to hold them both.

This little room was warm, and the rain had decided to start pounding like it wanted to find a way in. The weird gauze covering the room was full of faces she didn’t want to look too closely at. They moved, formed and re-formed, stared at her, some with goggles of astonishment, others gazing into the distance, some moving their mouths as if speaking. The ever-present smell of musk and male was comforting, and it seemed to hold the faces at bay.

He hadn’t said anything since he pushed her inside the room. She didn’t even remember where they were or if he’d paid for it; it looked like yet another hotel room.

Her nylons were sadly the worse for wear and her coat was soaked. And she had no goddamn idea what to do next.

Well, there was no harm in asking, was there? What was the worst he could do to her now?

You know, I really don’t want to know. But she gathered herself. It took two tries before her voice would work.

“What do I do now?” she whispered, and braced herself.

He cocked his head. “You go ahead and sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Sleep? After all that? “I don’t think I can.”

“Just lay down. The rest will take care of itself.” His hair was wet, curling a little, and if she hadn’t seen him kill those…those things, she might not have believed it. Because he slumped in the chair as if he was tired, rolled his head back on his shoulders, and sighed. There was no sign of the thing he became, fur crackling from its skin, moving with a grace and speed that was far from human.

Sophie shivered. “I can’t.”

He didn’t sound angry, only thoughtful. “Sure you can. Just lay down. It’s almost dawn, we’re safer during daylight. Upir don’t come out much then.”

Much? “I thought vampires couldn’t stand daylight.”

“The older ones can, but not much of it. It’s fire they can’t stand, direct open flame. Messy way to kill ’em, though. Best way is to take the throat out.” He stopped, settled his boots more firmly on the windowsill. “You’re safe. We weren’t followed—I broke our trail and doubled back. You should sleep.”

“But I…” Her feet ached and her back twinged, too. Running in heels was not good. Her glasses were spotted with rain, but she hardly noticed because the gauzy things between her and the world were still moving, creeping closer and closer, pressing against the little sphere of normalcy her head ached to maintain.

He sighed, took his feet down from the sill, and rose fluidly. He shed his wet jacket, hanging it over the back of the cheap orange chair, and stepped over to the bed.

Sophie flinched, but he was faster, catching her face in his hands. His fingers were gentle, but she froze, feeling the strength running through them.

And the claws. She’d seen the claws. Her brain stuttered, turned this over, and gave up, shoving the memory away as an Unpleasant Thing.

He tilted her face up, examined it in the light of the bedside lamp. His eyes were so dark, and he looked worried—for once, his mouth drawn tight and the shadow of stubble on his cheeks contributing, the line between his eyebrows having the final say.

“You’re triggered. It means your potential’s been actualized, and you’ve been set as a Carcajou shaman. As our shaman.” He said it gently, though it didn’t mean a damn thing to her. “Right now you’re seeing the spirits. The food will help, but you need to sleep. Your body’ll finish changing while you sleep. I’ll stand guard, make sure nothing gets to you. You just rest, and everything will be fine. Trust me. If you can.”

Jesus. He’s serious. She tried to pull away, but his hands were far too strong. “Let go.” She sounded very tired, even to herself. “Why are you doing this to me?”

She expected him to be angry, but no hint of it crossed his face. Instead, he grinned, and the expression did wonders for his eyes. When he softened, he was handsomer. “What, saving your life? Maybe I like you.”

What? She stared blankly at him.

“Maybe I like you a whole lot. Maybe I bumped into you and thought you smelled really good.” A small shrug, his smile turning one-sided, a corner of his mouth lifting even further. “Maybe I like the way you walk, and I like your cute little librarian look. And maybe, just maybe, I like you, not just the fact that you’re a shaman. How ’bout that for reasons?”

Vast, numbing incomprehension settled over her. None of this made any sense.

“For right now,” he continued, “you need to rest. Not just any sleep, but shaman-sleep. I’ll keep watch. When you wake up we’ll feed you again, and we’ll figure out what to do next. I’m all for finding out why the upir are so hot to put you six feet under, if we can do it without you getting hurt.”

He let go of her face, but didn’t leave her be. Instead, he slid her jacket off her shoulders like she was a little kid, tossed it aside, and half pushed, half guided her down to lie on the bed. He eased her shoes off, and the feeling was so wonderful she could have cried. He even, carefully and awkwardly, slid her glasses off, folded them up, and put them on the rickety little table next to the twin bed. “I’ve been handling you all wrong.” The tone was soft, soothing. Like when Mark was in his rare happy moods, the ones that reminded her of why she’d married him in the first place. “I’m going to do better. But for right now, close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

She didn’t want to close her eyes. If she did, the gauzy faces might come closer, and if they touched her, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Go mad, maybe, if she wasn’t already insane from all this. “There’re faces. In the mist.” I sound about five years old. Exhaustion weighed on her arms and legs.

He leaned down, brushed her hair back from her forehead, trailed his fingertips over her cheek. It was an oddly intimate touch, and should have made her blush. “They won’t hurt you. I promise. Just trust me, and close your eyes.”

I don’t trust you. You kidnapped me twice. But the thought was very far away. Her eyelids were heavy, and he kept stroking her forehead. Her eyes closed without any conscious direction on her part, and the last thing she felt before slipping into complete darkness was one fingertip, calloused and warm, trailing down her cheek to touch her half-parted lips.

“Just sleep, shaman,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything else. No more worries for you.”

“Let’s have a talk,” Mark said, pleasantly.

Sophie’s mouth went dry. She stood in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through the bay window with its neat collection of green herbs in pots. The dish towels on the rack were carefully folded, and she had dried every plate twice before putting it away. She frantically reviewed everything she’d done today—if she could anticipate and apologize, he might take it easy on her.

Mark ran his hand back through his blond hair, the shark-charming smile showing his pearly whites. Everything about him was expensive, from the blue button-down to the immaculately pressed designer jeans; he was barefoot, his pedicure resting against the granite tiles he’d had installed the summer he almost broke her wrist and did break her rib. The same summer he’d almost drowned her. The granite had been his grand gesture—as if she wanted stone growing around the room where she spent most her time.

“Are you listening, Sophie?”

“Yes.” She searched for the right answer, backing up in the angle between the corner sink and the counter to its left. The back door was eight feet away, and the kitchen island was between them. The copper-bottomed pans glowed, hung on a rack overhead.

Sometimes, even in the middle of the night, they would rattle and buzz, rubbing against one another like they were alive. Mark never heard them.

“I’m a little worried. Your friend Lucy called last night. She left a message on the voicemail.” He paused. The sun gilded him, turned him into a statue, and he was wearing that most dangerous of smiles, the friendly one. Other people thought Mark was charismatic, but that smile always chilled Sophie’s skin, sending a prickle of alarm down her back. His blue eyes were calm, thoughtful, and just a little bit amused. “She seemed to think you were having coffee with her on Wednesday.”

Of course she was, Wednesday was always her coffee day with Lucy. She was getting closer and closer to blurting something out, though; each time they met and the bruises twinged, she would tell herself to keep her mouth shut. It wasn’t that bad, she would repeat to herself, over and over. Millions of women dealt with worse. And the house was so beautiful, and Mark was so rich—what right did she have to complain?

She said nothing. It was the safest course right now.

“I think your time would probably be better spent volunteering. I’ve spoken to Delia Armitage at the Child Relief Fund, and she said they’d be glad to have you. You’ll start Wednesday, 3:00 to 5:00 p.m. I don’t think I need to tell you to dress appropriately, do I?”

“No.” The word escaped her, a breathless refusal.

“No, what?”

“No, Mark. Of course not.” But that wasn’t what she meant.

She meant, No, I’m not going to put up with one of your mother’s old-biddy friends who’s always checking my clothes and reminding me you married beneath you. She meant, No, Lucy is my friend, my last friend, and you’re not going to take her away from me.

Mark heard what he wanted to hear. “That’s settled, then. Good girl.” But his eyes were the same, bright and paralyzing. “I don’t think Lucy’s a proper friend, Sophie. She seems a little…déclassé, if you know what I mean. You’re flying with the eagles now, you shouldn’t spend time with the sparrows.”

Another one of his goddamn clichés. “Yes, Mark.”

He slid around the corner of the kitchen island, and the copper-bottomed pans rattled warningly. They were polished each week by the maid service, and the sound of them striking one another was a rattlesnake’s mouthless speaking.

“I can’t see why you’ve allowed that to drag on so long.” He sounded thoughtful, and Sophie braced herself. “You’re a new person now, Sophie. You don’t need your old life. Do you?”

He wouldn’t stop until he’d made her say it. “No, Mark.”

“All you need is me, and I’ll take care of you. I’ll tell you what to do.” He was within five feet, and getting closer.

Her throat was dry. Her hands wanted to twist together; she kept them dangling by her sides only with an effort. If she flinched now, it would be waving a red flag in front of a bull. “Yes, Mark.”

He took her shoulders. His hands were warm and manicured, and a fresh bruise on her right bicep ached as his thumb rubbed it. “Now, there’s one other question. We know how…forgetful you are.”

Oh, God. He wasn’t going to let her go until he hurt her.

“How,” he continued, his hands tightening slowly, “am I going to be sure you don’t forget?” His fingers dug in until they rubbed against her bones, and Sophie gasped. Next would come the slap, and the yelling—and she knew she was dreaming because this had already happened, she had escaped, she knew she had escaped, and this was a nightmare but it wasn’t stopping, and Mark’s face twisted into something plum-colored and twisted with rage, the pots rattled and the sunshine pouring through the window dimmed, became a flat darkness—

—and she sat up, her mouth filling with a coppery rancid scream. Someone had her shoulders, light was filling the room, and for a moment she thought everything had been a hallucination, that Lucy was still alive and she was trapped, in the kitchen with Mark right before he knocked her to the ground and kicked her, shouting, the red explosion of pain in her belly enough to make her cry, at last.

“It’s okay,” someone said. “It’s all right. You’re safe, it’s just a dream.”

Sophie froze.

Zach’s hair was damp and mussed, and he looked about as far away as it was possible to get from Mark’s manicured blondness. He’d shaved, but he was still in the same rumpled navy-blue T-shirt and jeans. Sophie stared, struggling for breath as the panic attack descended.

“Jesus.” His hands were gentle, and she could shrug out of them if she wanted to. She didn’t dare—who knew when his fingers would bite down, when he would start to yell? “Must’ve been a doozy. What was it, sweetheart?”

God, just leave me alone. Irritation warred with the need to breathe, her lungs closing down. She managed a short sharp inhale, a long gasping exhale, her body refusing to work. The shakes spilled through her, and he did a strange thing—he pulled her forward, folding his arms around her. The covers were all rucked up, cocooning her, and the slant of light against the cheap curtains made her think of late afternoon.

But the oddest thing happened. The heat of him soaked into her muscles, made it easier to breathe. Musk swirled around her, an almost-physical weight. She could smell the concern on him, clean and male, somehow healthy.

The panic eased. She took a deep breath. He was stroking her hair, murmuring something she couldn’t quite hear because her ear was pressed against his chest and the thunder of his heartbeat drowned everything else out.

Slowly, very slowly, the shakes retreated. Now she could hear what he was saying—things like, “It’s okay” and “I’m here” and “Just let it all out.” Soothing, therapeutic things. It didn’t matter. He smelled comforting, and that was another thing—how could she tell?

Her heartbeat eased. Her muscles loosened. When the panic finally stumbled and shivered to a halt, she found she was sweating a little, the light filling the room was pearly gray winter sunlight, and the man holding her was rubbing her back, his fingertips finding sore spots and working them gently through her rumpled suit jacket.

God, I slept in my clothes. Ugh. But she was warm, and for the first time in a long, long time, she felt…

Well, she felt safe.

It was ridiculous. He’d kidnapped her, for Christ’s sake. But her brain kept running over the things on the rooftop, their eyes dripping hellfire, and the way he hadn’t even hesitated, whatever he was, to throw himself at them. To get them away from her.

Still, would she be in this mess if it wasn’t for him? He’d done something to her. The misty faces were still there, pale but swirling just below everything her eyes saw. Spirits, he called them.

A fast track to the psych ward and the ruination of everything she’d worked for since fleeing Mark was more like it.

“Better?” Zach asked, the word rumbling in his chest.

I don’t know. Still breathing, at least. “I guess so.” She had to clear her throat twice; she was dehydrated and her head hurt.

“Still seeing the majir?”

“Ma-zheer?” She blinked. He was very warm, and for a moment she wondered what it would be like to just relax there for a long time, leaning against someone. The moment passed, and she struggled away, her left palm sending a flare of pain up her arm as the scab scraped the sheets.

“The spirits. Faces, you said last night.” He let her go, but didn’t move off the bed. He should have looked awkward, half kneeling and watching her with unblinking dark eyes. But he didn’t. He looked as self-contained as a cat, and as graceful, too.

She nodded, biting her lip. This is so crazy. I’m pretty sure I’m still sane, though. He told me I was. How could he know what I saw unless it’s true?

“Good.” He slid off the bed, a short sharp movement. “Better get cleaned up. I’m not sure we should stay here much longer.”

“Where are we?” Her nylons were ruined, and there was nothing else for her to wear. Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a cattle barn.

“Hotel.” The sun gilded his hair as he crossed to the window, looked out, his shoulders stiffening a little. “I think it’s called Happy Arms. What a name.”

“Oh.” How could I sleep? I must have been exhausted. She lifted her left hand, examined her palm. The scab was red and angry-looking, and she didn’t have anything to bandage it with. “Ouch. Dammit.”

That got his attention. “What?” Three long strides had him back at the edge of the bed; he seized her wrist and turned her hand up, examined the wound. “Jesus. When did you do this?”

“S-Saturday.” When I was getting away from all of you. A sudden lump rose in her throat, and she sucked in a harsh breath as he manipulated her hand, squeezing the scab slightly.

“Must’ve bled. Probably how they tracked you, they’re like sharks.”

A bolt of pain went up her arm. She winced, and his eyes came up. He studied her face for a long moment, and she was suddenly sure there was something sticking in her eyes, or sleep-drool on her chin.

“You really don’t have a clue about any of this, do you?” His fingers loosened.

She snatched her hand back. Sarcasm was probably the best response. “Is it that obvious?”

A shadow of irritation crossed his face, and he took a single step back. “Look, I’ve handled you badly. I’m sorry. I snatched you off the street because you were in danger and because you smelled good. It’s not the best set of reasons in the world, but it saved your life. You think you could work with me here?”

“Because I smelled good?” What the hell?

“Yeah.” One corner of his mouth lifted a little. “You smell even better now.”

“I haven’t even had a shower.” The man was a lunatic, she decided. Her back ached, but overall she felt pretty good. Getting enough sleep was probably the answer to all the world’s problems.

If she could sleep for a week, though, it wouldn’t bring Lucy back to life. It wouldn’t stop all this.

“Better hurry, then.” He turned back to the window. A ripple passed through him, as if he was going to turn into that…the thing again. She froze, and huddled on the bed, blinking.

But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring out the window like it was a movie screen. Silence stretched between them.

“So what happens now? I don’t suppose you’re going to take me home.” I sound strange.

His broad shoulders rose, dropped. “I’m not so sure you have a home to go back to, Sophie. Is that short for Sophia?”

You are so not the first person to ask me that. “No, it’s just Sophie. What do you mean, you’re not so sure?”

“I smelled smoke. The more I think about it, I think the upir torched your building. Are you really sure there’s no reason for them to be after you? Because it sure seems like they’ve got a grudge.”

Torched my building? “Look, I’ve never seen anything like this before. As far as I knew, werewolves and…and vampires were only in movies. And not even very good movies. I don’t know what any of you want from me. I just want to be left alone.”

“To go back to starving to death? Look, you want to be a social worker? Great. We’ll pay your way through school. We’ll get you a place to stay, a nicer place than that little apartment. We’ll protect you against anyone, including your ex-husband. All you have to do is be our shaman.”

She stared at his wide back under the navy T-shirt. He was so…big, but it wasn’t just his height or the muscle. It was the way he carried himself, with utter self-assurance. “What’s the catch?”

His hair had red highlights in its darkness, and skin moved smoothly over the muscle of his forearms as he stuck his hands in his pockets. “You just have to put up with us being a little…different. I’ll teach you everything you need to know. Look, Sophie, it’s not just because you smell good. People like us, if we don’t have a shaman, we can go a little…crazy.”

Crazy enough to start kidnapping people off the streets? But she buttoned her lip over that one. It was what Lucy might have called Not Helpful.

Oh, but it hurt to think of Lucy.

“That’s why others of our kind, other Tribes, won’t even talk to us if we don’t have a shaman. We’re fugitives. Shamans help us stay controlled. Our last one…she died in a house fire, a long time ago. It was…” He sounded like he had something in his throat. “We need some help, Sophie. We need your help.”

She licked her lips, wished for a toothbrush and a decent cup of coffee. “What if I say no?”

“That’s not really an option.” He said it so quietly she knew he meant it. “We can do it the easy way, or the hard way. I’ve got to make sure my Family survives.”

A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Survives?”

“Without a shaman, we’re vulnerable. You think I like doing this?”

“You certainly don’t seem too broken up about it.”

He turned on his heel, his chin dropped, and he regarded her with glowing-dark eyes. Sophie hugged her knees and wished she hadn’t said it. He looked like Mark sometimes did when he was getting ready to yell, and she decided right now would be a really good time for her to start using some of that psych she was always studying.

Only, would it work on a werewolf?

He didn’t yell. His tone continued, slow and even and very flat, as if he was choosing each word very carefully. “I would have liked it better if we could have trailed you, and if I could have met you, let you think it was coincidence. Asked you out on a date or two. Gradually eased you into it. We’re not bad, Sophie. We’re just different. And we need you, you can’t imagine how much. I’m asking you to help us out, even though we haven’t been exactly saints or anything.”

“Why me?” I’m just ordinary. The rattle of copper-bottomed pans in her memory intensified.

“You’re the first shaman we’ve found, the first person with any potential we’ve ever found. We can’t wait around for another one—more of us will die. Probably Brun, he’s weak. Or Julia, because she’s been allowed to grow like a weed and she’s too goddamn stubborn for her own good. Eric might hold out, but his animal…he might go over the edge any day. I might. And if that happens the other Tribes’ll hunt us down and kill us like meat.” He shrugged. “Against that—against more of them dying—I really have no trouble forcing you to stay put and getting to know us.”

Well, nice to know he’s feeling no qualms. “So what if I believe you? What if I agree? What happens next?”

The tension running through him didn’t wane. He just stood there and looked at her, hands in pockets, shoulders drawn up, the weak sunlight bringing out red in his hair. “You get cleaned up. We get you some fresh clothes and something to eat. And we try to figure out what the upir want with you.”

Sounds like I don’t have much of a choice. Story of my life. “And you really don’t have any trouble forcing me to do things?”

“Look, all I want is for my Family to survive. You’re necessary for that. And I like you, Sophie. I like you a lot.” His tone dropped from “friendly” to something else, and Sophie swallowed dryly.

“Because I smell good.”

“You don’t just smell good.” One corner of his mouth lifted a little. “You smell really good.”

I wish he’d stop looking at me like that. “Great.” She pushed the covers down and slid over to the opposite side of the bed. He was looking at her that way again, as if she had something weird on her face. “I’m going to get cleaned up.”

“There’s a toothbrush in there, I brought it for you. Are you going to stay with us, Sophie? Keep us human?”

I wasn’t too great at keeping Mark human. But you guys are something else, aren’t you? If it was true, and they needed her…but did that excuse kidnapping someone?

Or saving her life?

She slid her legs off the bed, arranged her skirt, tried to smooth her jacket. “I want to go home.” And she wanted to bandage her hand. “So I can pack, at least. There’re things I have to take with me.”

“All right. As long as it’s during daylight, and we’re careful.” Did he sound relieved, of all things? “Thank you, Sophie.”

She made it to the bathroom door, looked back over her shoulder, pushing her hair away. At this distance he was an indistinct blur, because her glasses were still on the small hutch next to the bed. “Don’t thank me, Zach. I’ve been doing what people force me into all my life. This isn’t any different.”

He had no snappy comeback for that, and there was a definite feeling of satisfaction in shutting the bathroom door. Still, it was nice to have a fresh toothbrush, and she wondered about that while she tore it open. There was also a small travel tube of mint toothpaste. It wasn’t like a kidnapper, was it?

And he’d protected her from those things. She still wasn’t sure if he’d brought them to her apartment, though. But the first one had killed his brother. And then there was Lucy…and the detective. God, how could everything go so wrong?

I just wanted to have a good time. I should have known. It should be me in the morgue now. They were after me, and they killed Lucy instead.

It’s my fault.

An even more horrible thought occurred and she halted, toothpaste in one hand, staring at the mirror.

I’m not going to be able to go to Lucy’s funeral. I don’t even know when it is.

Lucy was really, truly, irrevocably dead. All that brightness, all that life, poured out in a filthy alley. She’d been lured out there and—

Sophie made a small hurt sound, clutching the toothbrush. The faces in the mist all around her sharpened, and she shut her eyes.

It was no use. She could see them even with her eyes closed. They were pale, nowhere near as clear as they’d been last night, but they were still there. It wasn’t a dream. These things were real. They had killed Lucy, and they were happening to her.

“Sophie?” Zach was at the door. He sounded concerned.

She twisted the water on savagely. I’m fine. Leave me alone.

While the water ran, she cried, as quietly as she could. By the time she turned the shower on, wondering why she bothered because she would have to put her dirty clothes back on, the sobs had quieted a little. Just a little, and it was still hard to force herself to breathe, to stop being a sissy.

It was time to toughen up, like she had a year ago. Time to be a big girl and get some things done.