by Elisa Paige
It was an uninteresting mystery, so I took only the cash, unhappily having to leave some behind after I’d filled the pillowcase and my backpack. As I was turning away, a scattered pile of photos on the bedside table caught my eye. Knowing I didn’t have time to waste, I nonetheless crossed the small room and looked at the images on top. Sudden fury burned through my veins, painting a red haze on the frightened faces staring back at me. Each picture showed a different individual. But collectively, the stack featured only females—all young with olive skin and almond-shaped eyes. And all bound, in varying postures of subjugation, debasement and pain.
Baring my teeth and snarling, my gaze tracked from the pictures to the four unconscious men. The bastards were filthy slavers.
With a tight rein on my rage, determined not to give in to the building frenzy, I put the heavy pillowcase on the floor at my feet and set my loaded backpack next to it. When I straightened—slowly, exerting immense self-control—I held my black daggers.
While it went against my instincts to kill in the absence of a direct threat, I felt sure I could make an exception in this case.
Turned out, I was right.
In the cab ride over, I’d spotted a deserted office building a few blocks away from Twitchy’s motel and it was there that I headed next. The seven-foot chain-link fence topped with concertina wire did nothing to slow me and I cleared it with ease. I would have thought it would be a deterrent to humans, but the torn-up walls inside the structure showed that vandals had gotten in and stolen countless yards of wiring. I’d learned that the metal inside the thin wires was called “copper” and that criminals took it to sell for chemicals like the kind Twitchy must’ve been using.
I shrugged internally. Nothing humans did made much sense to me.
Needing to rest after having stayed shaded so long, I was, nonetheless, too restless to doze off. It felt like my mind was humming, my muscles tense and ready for a fight. No matter how I might try to justify it, there was no way to adequately dress up stealing with pretty justifications or my genuine need for cash and transportation.
My brain spun in circles for a while before my eyelids eventually grew heavy and my thoughts quieted. Tilting my head back against the wall behind me, I closed my eyes and—at long last—drifted off.
After catnapping in the three-story building until midnight, I jogged a mile across sleeping neighborhoods to a motorcycle dealership. I couldn’t quite keep the delighted grin off my face as I sifted into the building—I’d really missed my Ninja and couldn’t wait to replace it. Nothing compared to the thrill of flying along on that jet-black bike.
I firmly told myself that Koda’s kiss, his touch, what I felt when I was with him…none of that counted. Then, just as firmly, I insisted I believe the lie. That I failed miserably erased my grin.
The motorcycle showroom was dark except for pools of light that dramatically spotlit a collection of gleaming bikes, all built for speed. My avid gaze was drawn to a gorgeous black-on-black machine with chrome accents—a twin to the one I’d lost in the fire. After destroying the security cameras, I unshaded and ate a handful of jelly beans, chewing happily and crossing to the motorcycle I wanted. Running my fingertips across its sleek gas tank, I grinned again with renewed pleasure and plucked the display card off its seat.
For survival reasons, I’d quickly learned the significance of money in the human’s world. So even though I couldn’t read, I understood the card’s “$14,799” and carefully counted out the correct amount of cash before stacking it next to the bike’s front tire. This emptied the pillowcase and depleted my backpack’s stash by half, but I wasn’t concerned. Another thing I’d learned was that criminals were everywhere—I could always get more money.
On my way to the row of offices along the showroom’s back wall, I came across an alcove with racks of clothing. Humming to myself, I selected mesh bike gloves, a zip-up leather jacket with built-in protective crash armor, stretchy pants, a sleeveless T-shirt with a sparkly silver skull on it and a sweet streamlined helmet with an ultra-dark visor. Like my chosen bike, everything was black. My matching boots were fine, but I’d need to stop somewhere for undies and socks.
Because I’d taught myself the most basic of math skills, I was able to painstakingly count out the cash for each item—five hundred for the jacket, one-seventy for the helmet, eighty for the gloves, forty for the T-shirt and two-fifty for the pants. Putting the individual stacks on the showroom’s desk, I ripped off the price tags and put each on top of the corresponding money, determined that the salespeople make the connection. My honor would never allow me to leave the showroom without paying.
Quickly changing into the new clothes, I shoved the old ones into the empty pillowcase and dropped it next to my bike. A short trip to the largest office turned up the pegboard with its tidy, unintelligible-to-me labels and corresponding keys. I filled my jacket pockets with every key I could find before heading back to the Ninja. Putting on the helmet, I flipped up the visor and slipped on the gloves. Settling onto the bike’s narrow seat, I shrugged into my backpack and set the bag of dirty clothes in front of me. The third key I tried started the engine, so I emptied my pockets of all the others, carefully laying them on the floor beside the stacked money. A final look around the showroom had me hesitate—there was one thing more I wanted to do before I left Dallas.
Leaving the bike to idle, I went back to the offices and found a large envelope in a stack of supplies. Folding it, I shoved it and a pen into an inside pocket of my jacket. Hoping the amount was right, I put a ten dollar bill in their place before retracing my steps. Climbing back onto my gorgeous new bike, I flipped the visor down and released the kickstand. Holding the brakes tight, I revved the engine and laughed out loud as the back tire spun so fast, it made a black mark on the white tile floor and filled the showroom with smoke and the smell of hot rubber.
Clamping my knees to the bike’s sides and thrilling to the engine’s snarling roar, I released the brakes and shot forward as if released from a cannon. Shading myself—but, purposely, not the bike—I roared through the plate-glass window and out into the night, howling with laughter as the burglar alarm began to shriek. Gunning the engine and burning rubber in the parking lot, I amused myself imagining the police’s astonishment upon viewing the outside security cameras’ tapes—it would look like the motorcycle was possessed and took off on its own.
Still chortling, I glanced at the gas gauge and was pleased that there was enough gas for my short-term needs. Kicking up the bike’s speed another notch, I streaked off into the night, putting distance between the dealership and me.
I aimlessly meandered around Dallas for an hour, habitual caution making me blur my trail to ensure I couldn’t be tracked from the dealership. There was at least one lord I felt sure wanted me either captured or killed as punishment for having escaped—which he opted for depended entirely upon how pissed he was when and if I was caught. Besides, I still didn’t know who’d set my former hidey-hole on fire or made the weh yetar shapeshifter look so like the little blonde girl from my memories.
I’d taken every precaution. I knew I hadn’t screwed up. But there was no arguing with chilling fact. Somehow, someone who knew far too much about my history had found me. Which meant it was a damn good thing I was leaving Dallas.
Before picking up I-75 and heading north, I was thrilled to find a twenty-four-hour mega store, where I bought gas, jelly beans, undies, socks and a few necessities. That late in the evening, there weren’t many shoppers, so I was able to get in and out quickly.
I made one last stop at a biker bar near downtown where I exchanged eleven license plates in record time before finally selecting one for my motorcycle and tossing its shredded paper tag in a dumpster. If any of the bikers noticed his plate had been changed, it would take him a long while to untangle the mixed up mess I’d left behind. There was no way to connect me to any of it.
Grinning to myself, I raced several blocks before flipping on my hea
dlight and taking the entrance ramp to 75 North. Dallas to Chicago was a long damn ride on a bike, but if I paced myself, I’d be fine. With my visor down and the helmet covering my head, I could drop my camouflage and just enjoy speeding along on my nimble motorcycle, zipping in and out between slower moving cars and—when I left the worst of the traffic behind and the open highway stretched—racing the wind.
About a hundred miles later, I was thinking that maybe a Ninja—built for speed, not comfort—wasn’t the best choice for the haul north. Two hundred miles after that, my butt was aching, my hands had fallen asleep on the grips and my grin had changed to a scowl. Going long distance on a motorcycle was about endurance and patience. I was woefully low on both.
At roughly the halfway mark, I left the interstate and rode a little distance down a narrow road to enter a forest. I was sure the place had a name, given the large brown sign outside the entrance, but couldn’t make sense of the squiggly lines. The dense trees and solitude were just what I needed after the jarring highway, bright headlights and my bike’s endless drone. With lights and engine off, I coasted deep into the woods and stopped. Removing my helmet, I tipped my head back, soaking in the quiet and the night’s cool, clean air.
Shaking myself, I slipped off the bike and stretched, grimacing at the stiff muscles and tugging off my gloves. It felt like my hands were shaped in a perpetual claw from grasping the grips. My stomach’s grumbling added to my list of complaints, so I found a handy log and sat down. Digging in my backpack, I pulled out a package of beef jerky and tore it open. My sharp teeth were more than equal to the task of eating the tough meat, although I couldn’t help but think how different this meal was from the one I’d shared with Koda.
Scowling at the jerky, I was about to shove it back into my bag when movement brought my head up. On a low tree limb just across from me sat an immense owl, easily two feet tall from the tip of its extravagant tail to its feather-tufted ears. Seeing me looking at it, the bird bobbed its head and chittered, like it was scolding me for some infraction.
“Did I ruin your hunt?” I asked, amused. Besides nature’s calming effect, the only other aspect of my heritage that I took pleasure in was that wild animals didn’t fear me. I enjoyed their company and it had become a habit to talk to the beasts I came across. None had ever answered, of course, although there was something about this owl that told me it could if it chose to. I couldn’t help grinning. “Is there a fat, juicy mouse who’ll live another day because I got in your way?”
The owl blinked its huge golden eyes and clacked its beak, making me laugh. Its gaze swung to the jerky in my hand and it gave an emphatic hoot as if it was making a point.
I shrugged. “You’re welcome to it.”
The bird flew silently down to perch on the log by my side, accepting the dried meat with great dignity. Pinning the jerky under a taloned foot, it tore off a piece. Throwing back its head, it swallowed, then fluffed its feathers and hissed at me.
“Tastes awful, doesn’t it?” I commented companionably.
The owl watched as I settled my back against a convenient trunk and crossed my arms over my chest. Dawn was still hours away, but I’d learned a hard lesson in my relentless drive for Dallas—I wouldn’t exhaust myself like that again, not unless I had no choice.
Besides, unlike the vampires I’d hoped to meet in Texas, my trip to Chicago wasn’t about forging alliances or obtaining information. I was going north for one purpose only—to track and kill Philippe. I’d need all my energy and focus to do so.
I idly studied the owl as it returned the favor. “I’m afraid I’m not much company tonight. I need to sleep.” Yawning, I closed my eyes and slouched more comfortably. My log perch wasn’t The Mansion’s extravagant bed, but I’d slept on worse.
My companion made a clucking noise and I lifted a sleepy eyelid to watch it fly into the tree above my head. For all appearances, the owl seemed to be taking up watch. Fluffing its feathers, its golden eyes regarded me and my initial instinct that this was no normal owl stirred again. As our gazes met, I heard the distant sound of drums, the pounding of dancing feet. When the bird blinked and looked away, the impressions faded.
“What would Koda make of you?” I wondered out loud.
The owl gave a low hoot.
“Enigmatic. Huh. He’d undoubtedly approve.” Yawning again, I closed my eyes. Although I was accustomed to being alone, there were times when loneliness wore at me. Having another living being close by was a comfort.
The last few hours before dawn passed in my usual half-awake doze—not allowing myself to drop my guard enough to sleep deeply was yet another reason why I’d survived so long. Even with its silent flight, I sensed when the owl left and I voiced a quiet thanks as it flew off through the trees.
Stirring, I stretched and sat up, only then noticing that my companion had left a present for me—a beautiful feather about eight inches in length. Grinning with genuine pleasure, I picked it up to admire its bold black stripes and taupe base color. With great care, I tucked the feather into my inside jacket pocket, hoping it would stay undamaged until I could think of a better way to carry it.
The sun’s rays were just tipping the trees overhead when I got on my bike and set off again. By this time tomorrow, if all went well, the first big hurdle in my plan would be behind me.
Philippe would be dead.
Once in Chicago, it was an easy thing to find the correct building. Locating a parking space for the Ninja was another thing entirely. How ironic to have such a ridiculous obstacle slow my hunt when it was just now getting started. Ironic and massively annoying.
At long last, motorcycle safely tucked away in a parking garage and my vexation mostly contained, I joined the throng of pedestrians flooding the sidewalks. Taking a moment to wonder where all the humans were going and with such mindless intensity, I let my gaze linger on the skyscraper where the studio was located. Without pausing, I moved with the crowd past its entrance, sensing all the while the hostile watchers placed in strategic windows high overhead and on three of the four street corners. I’d expected police to watch the place, but it was intriguing that not all of the eyes trained on the building were human.
I didn’t believe that Philippe would be in the studio’s vicinity, but it was my profound hope that he was more arrogant than he was cautious, since this would induce him to remain in Chicago rather than leave the city for safer climes. I’d hoped to catch traces of his trail, certain that he would have left a violent and angry energy wake I could follow. But there was nothing. Like he’d just disappeared from the studio after killing…
I stumbled and had to catch myself. What if Philippe hadn’t left the building on foot? What if he’d been shifted away? I already knew he was allied with Reiden. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the vampire had other means of transportation available to him.
If I was right, I had no trail to follow. Philippe could, literally, be anywhere.
Cursing to myself but unwilling to give up just yet, I ducked into an alley a few blocks down, working my way back to the building. The only way to be sure he’d been shifted out was to get closer and see if I could sense any lingering fae presence. I hadn’t sensed one when I walked past, but I also hadn’t been looking for what would, by now, be very faint.
I’d just gotten to the right block when two humans climbed out of a plain car, slamming the doors before looking around with practiced eyes. The men were dressed in dark winter coats, unbuttoned and flapping in the cool wind. Both humans had on white dress shirts and jeans, but my eyes were drawn unwillingly to the vivid orange and yellow tie the shorter male wore. I wondered fleetingly if the guy was color blind, since one of his socks was navy, the other black—something I could see because his pants were too short.
A more salient point was that the humans’ mannerisms and wariness told me they were police. A complication I didn’t need right now.
Shading, I slipped closer, careful not to make any noise as I edge
d past the two men. I’d almost made it to a steel double-door set in a recessed alcove—probably where the building’s tenants accepted large deliveries—when I felt the shadows in the darkened alley coalesce into cold, oily shapes.
“Bodach,” I hissed, doubly irritated when the closer of the two cops stiffened and spun in my direction.
“You hear somethin’?” he asked the taller man.
“Yeah. I think it came from over there.” The guy gestured toward a door across from the studio’s building.
“The uniforms already checked the place out.”
“You got something better to do? We look again.”
I tensed as the two moved deeper into the alley’s shadows, which were almost pitch-black in places. A lone security light, high overhead, created a bright pool next to the door the police were headed for at what felt like the slowest pace a human could manage. As I watched, so, too, did the bodach—eager in their insatiable hunger.
Completely unaware they were being observed, the cops made it to the lighted doorway and I breathed with relief. Bodach could maintain their forms only in darkness, and because weak human eyes would never be able to make out the inky forms until the last possible moment, if the cops would stay to the lights—or just freaking leave, I grumbled to myself—I wouldn’t have to intercede to keep them from being slaughtered.
Four furry shapes detached themselves from behind a Dumpster to take refuge in the black shadows beneath the cops’ car. Drawing my daggers, I paced silently toward the humans, placing myself between them and the bodach lying in wait. The creatures remained hidden, like they were biding their time and so I stayed shaded—ready to attack if need be, but growing curious about the bodachs’ presence and their unusual patience. It was almost like they were scouting the building, much as I was. Maybe they were guarding Philippe’s backtrail?
Shattered glass crunching underfoot drew my attention back to the cops, who were staring at the broken chain and padlock that no longer secured the door. I was relieved to see that the men were holding flashlights and both beams were bright, like they had fresh batteries.
