Bite: A Shifters of Theria Novel (18 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

FALSE HOPE

I wake up surrounded by unfamiliar faces—three of them, all with particularly unfriendly grimaces. They aren’t gypsies and they aren’t hotel staff. Though I don’t recognize their faces, I do recognize their long black coats, their pale complexions, and when one of them says, “Good mornin’,” I recognize their thick New Yorker accents. They’re Carmine Pesconi’s men.

I try to run, but my cuffed wrists stop me. The men take a moment to laugh at my expense. Shit. How did they find me? How did they get into the room?

“Put the gag on her,” says one man with a long, thin face and pointed chin.

Another follows the command, stuffing a gag into my mouth. The gag is damp, sour, as if it had been in someone else’s mouth that same morning. It’s disgusting, and my gag reflex agrees.

“Let’s get her out of here.”

“Don’t try to fight us, sweetheart. You’re only makin’ it harder on yourself.”

Despite his warning, I try to squirm free. One man grabs my ankles to hold me still. His strength is impressive, holding me stationary as another man tinkers with my cuffs.

“Did he give you the key?” asks the man at my wrists.

“No. They didn’t say nothing about no cuffs.”

“Fucking gypsy bastards.” Gypsy bastards? I don’t believe it. I told them where the territs were and they sold me out.

“Give me a hand, will ya? Hold her wrists.” As one man takes my wrists, the other begins to slam the solid oak frame with his elbow. With three swift knocks, he breaks through the frame. Wooden splinters rain down on my face. Impossible. Solid oak doesn’t just splinter after a few knocks from an elbow. With a blunt jerk, I’m pulled up to my feet.

They lead me out of the room, down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the lobby. A fourth man waits in the lobby. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses and holding a long switchblade. Next to him is the young night auditor, quivering and blindfolded behind the desk. His cheeks are wet with tears.

The men lead me to the hotel’s backdoor. I could run. There are only one hundred meters between the highway and me and I can hear the rush hour traffic. I can hear the busses making their stops, the trucks rattling and coughing over potholes, cars splashing through polluted puddles. Someone would stop for me. Someone would help me. I just need to make it one hundred meters.

The hand around my arm tightens, as if I had been thinking aloud. The men blindfold me and stuff me into a black SUV.

The blindfold is damp, as if its previous owner had been crying. Crying doesn’t help anything, I know from experience. If anything, crying will make gangsters deal with you quicker. I try to ask where they’re taking me, but the only noise I make is incoherent mumbling.

The men laugh and the car pulls away. Think, Olivia. I try to pull my hands out from my cuffs, hoping they might have shrunk overnight from starvation and dehydration. They didn’t. My hands remain locked together.

“It’s a long drive, sweetheart. I suggest you take it easy.”

I catch myself from falling to my side as the car turns off the highway. The road is bumpy now. We’ve turned onto a dirt road. I try once more to speak through my gag—to try and convince the men to let me go. Again, I can only muster up some incoherent mumblings.

“Turn on the radio, will ya?” says one of the men in the SUV.

Frank Sinatra fills the car, drowning my mumbling out. I take a deep breath in through my nose. I can’t speak, see, or move. It’s for the best.

Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip # 92: always stay relaxed and absorb any and all information. Pay particular attention to the little things that people say. Quirks, mannerisms—everything. The little things are especially useful in constructing convincing lies and constructing effective schemes. Good lying is key to survival.

“What does the boss want with this girl, anyway?”

“He didn’t say.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wanted the girl.”

“That’s it?”

A plume of cigarette smoke drifts up my nostrils. The smell is strangely off-putting, and doesn’t smell like regular cigarette smoke. It’s a chemical smell, like the menthol cream my dad used to rub under my nose when I was stuffed up.

The man inhales and then says, “That’s it, kid. He wants Olivia Marie Cross alive. When the boss tells me to do something, I don’t ask questions.” His voice has a funny nasality to it.

“She’s doesn’t look like a gypsy.”

“She’s not. If she was a gypsy, the gypsies wouldn’t have sold her to us, the stubborn pricks that they are,” says the nasally fellow.

I knew it. Freddie sold me to Pesconi. The prick. I should have listened to my gut. I should never have told him where his stupid territs were. He played me. The asshole made me think there was an ounce of decency in his slithering body.

I can’t decide what makes me sicker: knowing I’m on my way to my deathbed, or knowing that I almost slept with that gypsy-wannabe piece of shit—knowing that he’s out there somewhere, laughing his ass off.

“I’m not sad to be leaving this dump, I’ll tell you that much,” the nasally man says. “Couldn’t even find a whore younger than fifty. I ain’t shitting you.”

The men erupt into laughter.

“Jesus Christ, Eddie,” says one of the men.

“What? It’s a shame, too. I was really looking forward to some action. How often are we in human cities? Therian girls are too tough, too bossy; they’re always fighting back. Human girls ain’t like that. You can throw ‘em around and do what you want with ‘em.”

What is he talking about? Human girls? Therian girls? When Freddie said it, I thought it was just his ego. I’m realizing now that they’re probably code words. Humans must be civilians. Therians must be members of Pesconi’s gang. It doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as Crips or Bloods.

The men weren’t lying; it is a long trip. After what feels like six or seven hours, I’m taken out of the SUV and put into a different vehicle, this one much higher off the ground. A nearby horse nickers and another neighs. Horses? Where the hell am I? All I know is, I’m
far
from home.

My new captors spend a few minutes stretching and chatting with another group of men before boarding the vehicle.

With a pattering of hooves we start to move. I’m in a horse-drawn carriage. The rugged trail makes me wish we were still in the off-roading SUV. Some of the bumps in the trail are so dramatic; I bounce a whole inch off of my seat.

“A few more hours still,” a man says to me.

The rattling, swaying, and bumping continues for at least a few hours, complete with nausea, boredom, and crippling anxiety—not to mention the shockingly frequent smell of horse shit. When we finally arrive at our destination, it’s night—no light seeps through my blindfold.

A man helps me out of the carriage, and then helps me stand upright while my muscles remember how to work, and the dizzying nausea passes enough that I can stand on my own. For once, the cool rain feels nice as it runs down my face, washing away all of the anxious sweat and the dirt kicked up by the horses.

“Where’s the boss?”

“He’s out ‘till the morning.”

“What should we do with the girl?”

“Bring her down to holding.” All of the voices are male, unfamiliar, with similar thick accents.

“C’mon.” Someone tugs on my arm. He has to catch me, as I lose my balance, nearly fall onto my face.

The refreshing rain is short-lived. I’m taken inside, led down a series of hallways and doors, and pushed into a small cement space. It’s cold and the air is damp and smells old. Finally, the gag and blindfold are removed from my face. Two unfamiliar men stare at me.

I’m in a dark cell with rectangular iron bars, crudely made with uneven, harsh edges.

“We’ll come get you in the morning,” one man says.

“Don’t bother screaming. You’re three stories underground and there’s no one around here but us. Oh, and don’t try shifting either. Those bars are solid iron, and those cuffs aren’t ventice. Got it?” The man stares at me, waiting for a confirmation. Ventice? Shifting? I don’t know what he’s talking about. Probably more code words they think I know.

They must think I’m part of some rival gang. Pesconi must think that, when I stole his wife’s clothes from the hotel room, I was acting on behalf of some rival gang. That’s why they don’t kill me—they want to interrogate me. They think I have information.