Edge of Instinct: Rabids Book 1 (35 page)

Gritting his teeth, Harley quietly slipped inside the building. Taking in the layout, he saw dark boxy shapes looming menacingly in the shadows around the edges of the large room. Directly in the center, a lone light swung back and forth. His instincts warned him, making the little hairs on his body stand on end. He scented the air, trying to figure out which way his enemy had gone. Heavy chemical smells bombarded his senses, skewing any form of direction worse than the rain had.

“Here pussy, pussy, pussy,” Harley growled pleasantly, listening carefully for anything that would give his quarry away. A door opened and closed in the distance, echoing toward him.  He crouched low, eyes swiftly skewering the inky depths of the abandoned warehouse, searching as he slunk further within. There beneath that single light lay Amiel’s jacket, discarded on the ground.
Trap!
his instincts warned once more. Snarling, Harley strode to the jacket. Hunting in the Skirts, Harley always brought along a few of his favorite weapons. He drew one of them now, the sword on his back. Staring down at Amiel’s jacket he breathed deep, preparing. He knew the moment he picked up that jacket that the fun would begin. With a humorless chuckle, he bent over the bundle of leather, eyes searching the shadows. The moment his fingers touched the leather, a single long roar filled the building, and Rabids poured out of the shadows. He stuffed Amiel’s jacked inside the front of his own as his eyes did a quick mental calculation, counting at least ten Rabids as they dashed in and out of darkness.

They jumped on him in a frenzy, and he fought them back with an equal fervor, sword and daggers glinting in the dim moonlight that poured through the boarded windows. Glancing over his shoulder he searched for the exit, trying to make his way back to the door, while keeping them away from his jugular. There was no way he’d get to the door without putting a dent in their numbers first. G
et your back to a wall
, he recited to himself. One of the first rules he’d learned at the Foundation, never expose your back. Reaching into his jacket, he popped the cork on a vial and threw the contents into the faces of the nearest Rabids. It hit two of them full on, the acid immediately beginning its work of burning through their flesh. They screamed, falling backward and scratching at their eyes. Three of their friends were kind enough to pounce on them, eating away. Rabids were easy like that, they never passed up a chance for a meal. Five down, five to go.

He leapt over the fallen bodies and ran as far toward the door as he could before throwing his back against another wall.  He hissed in pain as their nasty nails slashed at him, one jerk trying to get in a good bite on his thigh, but only succeeding in slicing it open with a claw before Harley severed the freak’s head with his sword. He stabbed one in the eye with a dagger, then growled out in anger as its friend bit down on his calf in retaliation, ripping into his muscle and tendons. Suddenly a whistle shrilled through the building, so high in pitch that the average Clean wouldn’t even hear it. The Rabids piling on top of Harley stopped, heads moving in tandem toward the back of the building. As one, except for the three still feasting on their friends, they turned and ran out the front door, leaving Harley bleeding, pissed off, and bewildered.

The smell reached his nose seconds after his instincts warning of danger registered. Fire in a chemical factory made for some pretty fireworks, and he’d be right in the center of it. Letting out a curse he spun and raced to the door. The explosion slammed into his back, only feet from the door, sending him hurtling through the air, along with millions of shards of debris from the building. Splintering through the wooden door he skipped across the ground like a stone on a lake. He kept skidding until the wall of another building stopped his forward momentum with a heavy thud.

Groaning into the asphalt, he shifted to glare blearily at the burning building. He groaned again as a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him. The beast within growled in rage, demanding revenge, demanding the Rat’s head. And he’d get that revenge. But first, he had to get himself under control, pull the beast back from its brink and refocus that energy into getting out of here. The heat of the fire would be drawing every Rabid within miles to it, and he’d be laying here like thanksgiving turkey. They might even be out there now, just beyond the shadows. He wasn’t entirely sure if he’d lost consciousness after getting up close and personal with the wall, so he didn’t know how much time he’d lost. At some point, the rain had stopped, he knew that much. And he was pretty sure his ears had ruptured during the explosion. Warm liquid trickled from them, and sounds were just ghostly echoes

Ears ringing, Harley forced himself to focus on a new list. 1. Get to Amiel, make sure she was safe. 2. Hole up somewhere until he healed. 3. Kill the Rat. Good solid list. Gritting his teeth he drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. He repeated this over and over, centering himself, focusing on the task of regaining a sense of the control that had lead him through every aspect of his life til this moment. He did a quick mental evaluation of damage, counting at least three broken ribs, a bite on his calf, tons of slashes and gashes that were leaking too much blood, especially the one on his hip, and some bruised kidneys. His blurred vision suggested a concussion as well. In his current state, he knew he would never make it across the city to the compound. Even if he could, it would be like walking from one lion’s den into another. His mind raced against the pain, searching for the best place to go. With a growl, he rolled to his feet, fighting the beast aside. His blood streaked the wall as he used its support to rise, the world swaying wildly around him. Somehow he managed to find his way back to his bike. Hauling himself onto it he allowed his instincts free rein, trusting them to lead him to safety while he focused on staying upright.

He ended up in front of some tall familiar metal walls. The bike tilted to the side as he stared at the walls, trying to place them. He tipped over with it, and his attempt to soften the bike’s fall did nothing. Grimacing at the way his baby made impact with the ground, he stumbled forward and slumped against the wall. Sweat was rolling down his jaw, neck, and finally seeping into the already soaked shirt. He was dimly annoyed with how much elbow grease it was going to take to get his jacket clean after this. As though answering his thought, thunder rolled across the sky, soon followed by another heavy down pour of rain. He tilted his head back, letting it thump against the wall as the rain sluiced across the ravaged skin. He smiled as he thought he heard whisper of Amiel’s voice calling his name. Explosions did funny things to your head. Thumbelina was likely still at work. He frowned. Or was today her day off? What day
was
today? He shook his head against the growing confusion gathering there. He blinked against the rain, trying to force his tired eyes to focus. It was a losing battle.

Amiel’s scent hit him then, and the next time he opened his eyes, she was there at his side. She squatted in front of him, rain slicking down her hair and dripping from her long dark lashes. The emeralds sparkling beneath their black fringes were wide with what looked oddly like worry and fear. In that instant, he had an incredibly disturbing thought. The kid wasn’t so much a kid as she was a beautiful woman; beautiful, and so very innocent to the ways of the world, to the truth of his nature. A distant, still rational part of his mind shouted warnings. He shouldn’t be here; not with her, not
now
. She was in front of him, safe and sound, number one on his list had been confirmed. Time to leave. Her scent filled his lungs with each breath, and he couldn’t help but draw in the clean, warm sweetness that was uniquely Amiel. It was strange, the way her scent affected him. The more often he smelled it, the deeper he seemed to relish it. Yet another sign that he
really
shouldn’t be here.

His darker instincts disagreed, however. They were practically salivating as her scent kept pouring over him, hanging heavily on the wet air instead of being washed away. Her mouth moved, hands reaching out to grasp his arm. He started at the warm touch of her skin against his cheek as she ran soft fingers over its stubble, and pressed the wet hair away from his forehead. Her lips were moving again, and he focused hard to understand what she was saying. He couldn’t understand a thing, especially since she appeared to be talking a mile a minute. But from her fussing, he gathered she was worried about his appearance. What did he look like at this point? He wondered distractedly, watching her lips as they moved. The press and release of the soft flesh, as she formed words he was no longer trying to decipher. They were a rosy pink, smooth and covered in a sheen of what looked like regular chap stick. He sniffed again. Make that cherry chap stick. It made him hungry.

He was hardly an expert in the area of crap women put on their skin, but he liked that she didn’t go overboard, plastering layer after layer on her face, the way most women did. She only used enough to enhance the appealing features of her face. Most of it centered around her eyes, drawing attention to the deep green coloring of them. Even when the stuff was pooling under her eyes from the rain, she still looked beautiful. Beautiful enough to make him sound like a sentimental idiot, even in his own head. He mentally punched himself in the jaw, trying to knock himself out of his dazed mental mushy talk. Despite his efforts, his gaze returned to her lips, and for the first time in so long, he wondered what it would feel like to kiss someone. Reality kicked him in the gut as her lips formed one frantic word, pulling a cell phone from her pocket.
Hospital
.

“No! No hospital!” She jumped hard, and he realized he must have shouted it. Feeling the foreign need to explain himself, he pointed a shaky finger to his ears. “Sorry. Can’t hear real good.”
Apologizing again.
He’d apologized to her more in the last few months than he had to anyone his whole life. She was turning him into a wuss. The apology should have appeased her, yet it only seemed to worry her more. She fiddled with the phone in her hand, staring at it as though it would hold an answer to her current dilemma. Perhaps it would, for her. Calling the emergency line would get him off the ground in front of her apartment, and she could stop worrying about him. But he knew exactly what would happen if he went to a hospital. What would happen the minute they saw the tattoo. When her distressed eyes finally rose to meet his again, he forced as much clarity into his eyes as he could.

“No hospitals
. Please
.” He needed her to understand the severity of his plea, but still he tried to soften the volume of his voice. Since he couldn’t hear, he had no idea if he’d succeeded or not. Damn ears needed to heal faster. He hated feeling weak, hated relying on others, and hated that look of sympathy and fear on her face. She grabbed a sopping strand of hair, twisting it around her fingers, back and forth, back and forth. The movement of her fingers was far too interesting, and he watched it like a cat would a mouse.
Time to leave!
Too bad his legs chose to rebel. He pressed upward but his knees gave way, and he fell to all fours.
Must have lost more blood than I thought
, he mused distantly, now fascinated with the ground below his palms as it swayed this way and that. The ground lost any interest the moment Amiel’s delicate arm wrapped around his back. Her voice floated to him on a light fog, though she was probably having to yell to be heard. He still couldn’t make out what she was saying, but it gave him hope that his body was finally doing what it was made to do, the healing process beginning.

She pressed under his left arm, forcing her body under it in an effort to offer him support. She managed to get him upright, but he was still on his knees. His ribs protested her efforts to help him, but he ignored them. He’d gotten use to ignoring pain over the years. Instead, he focused on her face, hovering inches from his own.
Why hadn’t he noticed how pretty she was before now?
he wondered drowsily. The water sluicing down her features did nothing to dull their allure. If anything, it only seemed to stir his insides up, other scenarios involving water pouring over her playing through his mind. He could feel his pupils dilate, and he quickly looked away, forcing the thoughts away.

He couldn’t allow that side of him through. Not when he was healthy and strong, and definitely not
now
when his darker genetic instincts were just below the surface because of his current weakness. Yet like a magnet, his eyes were drawn right back to those lips that seemed to call to him. Her scent poured through his nose like silk, filling his lungs and mind until nothing else existed. Her eyes widened, her own pupils dilating slightly as she stared up at him. She swayed toward him until he could feel her breath brush across his lips. The growl rumbled deep in his chest before he could stop it, and she paused, eyes widening further. Heaven help him, but it didn’t seem to scare her the way it should have. Her eyes held arrested excitement, excitement that only grew as her gaze dropped to the tattoo at his neck. Her fingertips lightly skimmed over the ink, sending heated shivers racing his body. Not good at all.

Suddenly her eyes darted to the side, attention diverted by something behind them. He twisted enough to see a large bulky man headed their way, face set with grim determination. Great, just what he needed; some idiot looking for trouble. He forced one foot to rise beneath him, prepared to release his darker instincts if it meant protecting Amiel. Something soft wrapped around his neck, and he looked down in confusion. A scarf? He looked back to Amiel, surprised to note her own determined gaze as she continued to wrap the scarf around his neck. Her lips formed one word that looked suspiciously like the word
behave
.