Hour of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #1) (2 page)

It looked really, really hungry.

―Nice, kitty,‖ she murmured in a low voice. ―We‘re stuck here together, so let‘s just be mellow about it, okay? My name‘s Victoria, but my friends call me Vicki.‖ Her ops team had called her Vic, and right now, that was short for victim.

The cat watched as she sidled sideways toward the cage door. She knelt, checked the lock.

Generic combination padlock. She could do this if her hands were free. And if the cat didn‘t decide it was hungry for human tartare.

To her relief, the cat‘s ears tilted forward and its eyes rounded. A second later, the cougar blurred.

Thinking her vision was screwing-up, Vic rubbed her face against her jean-covered knee, then raised her head.

The young man lay sprawled across the wire floor.

―Jesus-fuck!‖ She jerked back, falling against the wire. That was no drug-induced hallucination. Eyes narrowed, she studied the cage. There was no hidden door to pull a panther out and shove in a boy. Gritting her teeth, she stayed wedged in place. People didn‘t just turn into animals, and animals didn‘t turn into people. No fucking way.

The kid blinked at her blearily, ran a tongue over cracked lips, and said in a hoarse voice,

―Nice to meet you, Vicki. Sorry about the clawing and uh, tooth-marks.‖

Vic‘s hands closed into fists. He was definitely no longer a mountain lion. ―What are you?‖

she whispered.

He struggled to raise his head and gave her a pitiful smile. ―Some people call us Daonain or shifters. Me, I prefer werecats.‖ He glanced toward the stairs, and she could see him trying to hide his terror.

―A shifter,‖ Vic said, staring at the battered young man. Up close, the poor kid appeared in even worse shape, she thought with a welling of pity. ―Oh, sure—like in some Ann Rice novel or something?‖

―She does vampires, not shifters, thank you very much,‖ he said stiffly.

―Oh, yeah. I knew that.‖ Vic pulled at her wrists. Swane had done a good job on the knots—

there was no give there to exploit.

Suddenly, the kid‘s words registered— people call us shifters. ―Us? Us? Like, there‘s more of you?‖

―Well, duh.‖

―Jesus, take a nice, simple walk and blunder into the Twilight Zone. So what‘s with getting you to bite me?‖

―Don‘t you watch TV? It‘s supposed to turn you into a werecat.‖

―You aren‘t fucking serious—turn me into a werecat?‖ Vic‘s breathing stopped. She turned her fear into a glare at the kid.

―I told them biting wouldn‘t work.‖ His voice carried anger and guilt as he whispered, ―I tried and tried to tell them.‖ His gaze avoided the dead woman. ―We‘re born as Daonain.‖

Her breath eased out. ―There‘s a relief.‖

―Yeah, I bet.‖

Vic yanked at her bindings again, hissed as the skin on her wrists tore. ―Look, cat-person or whatever, do you think you can untie me without...um—‖

A trace of humor appeared in his light green eyes. ―Without having you for supper? Not a problem.‖ He tried to rise and failed, his chest heaving as if he‘d just jogged a mile. Looking even paler, if possible, he motioned her to him instead. ―I only lose control when I‘m drugged.

Or suddenly hurt.‖

Bending to walk under the low top, Vic crossed the cage, her knee grinding with each step.

―Or, uh, scared.‖

She froze a few feet from him. ―You turn into a cougar when you‘re scared?‖ The way her voice rose higher at the end was purely humiliating. She cleared her throat. ―Yeah, well, you‘re not afraid of me, right? And not really scared this minute...right?‖

He snorted. ―I‘ve been terrified since they caught me a month ago.‖

She didn‘t move. Cats can‘t see you if you don‘t move—she‘d heard that somewhere. But probably, being only two feet away might ruin that effect.

His sigh was almost a laugh. ―Get over here. I won‘t trawsfur—uh, change into cat form—

unless they come back. Cross my heart.‖

The childish phrase pulled at her emotions; really, he couldn‘t be more than seventeen or so.

Just a baby. And a very sick baby to boot. Where he wasn‘t bruised, sliced, or burned, his skin was an unhealthy yellowish-white. No wonder she‘d managed to get away from him despite being tied.

It still took a fair amount of courage for her to turn her back on him so he could work on the rope.

A couple of extremely long minutes later, she was free. She hunched over her hands, trying not to scream as the blood began to circulate. It felt like she‘d plunged her hands into a barrel of shattered glass. Shit, shit, shit. She sucked in air, breathing hard against the pain, while she opened and closed her fingers.

―Untying you won‘t do any good,‖ the boy said. ―We‘re still locked in.‖

―Not for long, buddy,‖ she muttered. ―What‘s your fucking name, anyway?‖

―It‘s Lachlan—and you sure swear a lot.‖

―I‘m planning to stop.‖ She winced at his disbelieving look. ―Really.‖ And the assholes who grabbed her should get totally fucked for messing up her fucking good intentions.

―Gramps always says people only swear because their vocabulary is limited.‖

―‗In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer,‘‖ she said absently.

―What?‖

―Mark Twain.‖ Now, had they taken everything from her pockets or just her wallet? ―Of course, compared to Kipling, he‘s a wussy.‖

He smiled. ―Ya know, I think my grandpa would like you. I like you too.‖ He looked shy as a little kid, and her heart ached. How could he endure all this and still show such sweetness?

She cleared her throat. ―Well, uh, good.‖ Card...card. She patted her back pockets, felt something stiff in one, and elation bubbled through her. ―Look.‖ She pulled the city transit ticket out of her pocket.

Lachlan craned his neck to frown at the little brown card. ―Vicki? City transit is good, but I don‘t think the bus stops at this cage.‖

She laughed. ―Watch and learn, young Skywalker.‖ Carefully, she tore the card into a narrow strip, then ripped some more and folded it into an ―M‖ shape.

―Origami?‖ Lachlan said doubtfully, ―My grandfather might enjoy it. He likes weird stuff.‖

The, ― I miss him‖ was so soft, she almost didn‘t hear it.

―How does Gramps feel about lock-picking?‖ She wrapped the heavy paper around one arm of the combination lock, wiggling and shoving the bottom of the ―M‖ into the crevice until she felt the click.

―The Force is with us.‖ She yanked the padlock open.

―Fucking A!‖

―Don‘t swear,‖ she said primly and shoved the cage door open. ―Let‘s go.‖

When he tried to stand, his legs buckled, dropping him back on the floor. He kept trying anyway, struggling for air like a landed fish. Hell, the boy was so thin, she could see his ribcage jerk with each heartbeat. The bastards had almost killed him.

―Kid. Quit. You‘ll give yourself a heart attack.‖

―I won‘t stay here,‖ he gritted out. Shoving his fingers into the wire, he pulled himself a foot toward her. His determination was appalling, yet awe-inspiring. ―Even if Swane doesn‘t do it, I‘m dead anyway.‖

―What the hell does that mean? No, don‘t tell me. Just shut up.‖ She grabbed his arms and dragged him out, wincing at how the wire floor abraded his fragile skin. With awkward maneuvering, she got him into a fireman‘s carry. Skinny, yes, but he weighed a ton as she straightened. Pain stabbed into her knee and her head pounded hard enough to blow her skull apart.

The kid didn‘t move. Had she killed him? No, as the ringing in her ears died down, she heard him wheeze for air. He sounded like hell.

But hey, she wouldn‘t want to die in a cage either.

The stairs were a nightmare, even when she risked an arm to lean on the rail to keep her knee from buckling. ―For someone so skinny, you sure are heavy.‖

―Sorry. And here I‘ve been trying to lose weight for you.‖

She grinned. Wise-ass baby—reminded her of herself, cracking jokes when scared spitless.

She glanced at the back door, then limped out the front. Her knee wouldn‘t put up with this abuse long.

The streetlights were coming on, circles of light spilling onto the dark, wet street. The drizzling autumn rain felt wonderful as it washed the sweat from her face. Now what? Steal a car? But there wasn‘t a vehicle on the street in this damned ritzy neighborhood. All locked away in their fancy two-car garages.

―Time to call the cops,‖ she said, half to herself.

Lachlan jerked, almost knocking himself off her shoulders.

―Don‘t do that!‖ She rebalanced him, biting down the groan when his hip dug into her ripped-up shoulder.

―I can‘t go to a hospital,‖ Lachlan said frantically. ―Not me—I can‘t. I shift if I‘m hurt. I‘m such a loser,‖ he whispered, the self-disgust pulling sympathy from her. Yeah, she‘d felt that way as a kid, always doing something stupid, like when she used her left hand to pass food to an Iranian minister. Father had turned purple.

―Please, Vicki. No cops, no doctors.‖

―You‘re awful fussy,‖ she muttered. She picked a direction and started to walk. Jesus, they were screwed.

But she was free. And hey, she‘d experienced lots of situations, as Wells liked to call them.

Trapped in a house about to be blown up, caught snooping by her Iraqi neighbor... ―Hang in there, kid.‖ Squeezed the emaciated leg hanging over her shoulder.

Worry bit into her guts as she realized his body had gone truly limp. He needed a hospital and to hell with his shifter paranoia crap. She‘d bust him out later if she had to. She headed straight for the nearest house.

With no hands free, she kicked the door in lieu of ringing a doorbell. Politeness was overrated anyway.

An outside light flipped on, and a man‘s face appeared in the small viewing window. ―Who is it?‖

―We were attacked,‖ she returned. ―Call an ambulance. Fast. This boy needs help.‖

After a long minute, the door swung open. ―I don‘t think a robber would be bleeding so enthusiastically,‖ the white-haired man said in a dry voice. ―Let‘s get you out of the rain.‖

Legs shaking with exhaustion, she staggered after the man, and the room‘s warmth wrapped around her like a cocoon.

―Sit down, child.‖ He waited until Vic dropped onto the sofa, then laid the kid down next to her.

As he disappeared, Vic slid her legs under Lachlan‘s shoulders so she could hold him. ―Hey, kid.‖

His eyes blinked open, the unfocused gaze slowly clearing. He stared around the living room. ―We got out,‖ he whispered.

―Yeah.‖ Vic couldn‘t manage more; her throat had tightened to the point of choking. Even awake, he looked bad. Really bad. ―We‘re safe here. He‘s a nice old man.‖

―A human? Vicki—promise you won‘t tell him—tell anyone—about me. Or about shifters.

Ever.‖ He clutched her hand, the veins in his neck stood out as he tried to sit up.

―Okay, fine, I promise. No one would believe me anyway.‖

―Thanks. That‘s good. This is good.‖ His voice was so soft she had to lean down to hear him. ―I really, really wanted to die free—not in a cage.‖

―I‘d rather you lived, damn it,‖ she gritted out as she brushed the drenched hair out of his face.

―I wish.‖ His eyes were very green as he looked up at her. ―My body pretty much shut down yesterday. It‘s a shifter thing; metal‘s bad for us, and that cage...‖ His mouth twisted in remembered pain.

―The docs will start IV‘s, give you blood, fluid, food—you‘ll be fine.‖

―No. But it‘s okay. I knew it was gonna happen.‖ Regret filled his eyes, and he blinked back tears. ―My grandfather—he‘ll be all alone now. He doesn‘t have anybody but me.‖

―Live for him,‖ she urged. So many people had died in her arms, she couldn‘t face another.

Not this boy—he wasn‘t old enough to die. Her chest felt raw and open.

―Not an option.‖ His lips were blue, the color of death. ―You got nobody either?‖

She shook her head. ―No.‖ A couple friends on the other side of the planet. And Wells—

could a spymaster be considered family?

―Now you will.‖ He gasped in a breath. ―Go to my grandpa, Vicki. In Cold Creek. Tell him what happened to me. Promise?‖

―Promise. I‘ll bring him to you in the hospital.‖ Yeah, she‘d find the old man wherever he was. ―But you will be there, you hear me?‖

His forehead wrinkled. ―How does it go?‖

―What?‖

He rubbed the scrapes on his shoulder. His fingers came away blood-streaked. ―Fire in blood.‖

Raising his hand, he wiped his tear-streaked cheek. ―Water.‖

―Lachlan?‖

He pursed his lips, puffed on his wet, bloody fingers. ―Air.‖

―What are you doing? Lachlan?‖ He didn‘t seem to hear her. Delusional? She‘d seen it before with blood loss.

He touched her filthy face and smiled at the dirt. ―Earth.‖

―Honey, I want you to rest,‖ she urged. Please don"t do this to me—live! For a second, his face blurred into her teammate, gasping her life away, and Vic‘s arms tightened. Oh, please, not again. ―Just concentrate on breathing and—‖

―And finally my spirit—that‘s the gift. I remembered it,‖ he told her, pride in his young, young voice. ―C‘mere.‖ He lifted his arm for a hug. She leaned forward and winced as his dirty fingers dug into her mangled, bleeding shoulder.

A second later, he slid his arm down for a true hug and pulled her close. ―Tell Grandpa I gifted you...and you‘re my gift,‖ he breathed in her ear.

Her arms closed around him. ―Dammit, you‘ll tell him, Lachlan. You‘ll tell him.‖

But only silence answered her.

Gone. He was gone.

Vic slumped back on the couch. Her cheeks were wet. Even as she scrubbed her face with her hands, she felt more tears spill from her eyes. What was wrong with her? She never cried.

People died. All the fucking time. She hadn‘t even known this kid. Tears ran down her cheeks, falling like little explosions of her grief onto Lachlan‘s empty face.

Footsteps heralded the return of the old man. ―I‘ve got—‖ The rest of his sentence was cut short by the wailing of multiple sirens, approaching rapidly. ―I‘ll go wave them in.‖

Vic could see the emergency vehicle lights through the thin front window drapes. She slipped out from under Lachlan‘s body, hesitated long enough to touch his cheek in farewell. His skin was already cooling.