Stolen

by Kelley Armstrong

  The third man's head lay on its side, eyes wide and dull. Paige jumped to her feet and tried to yank the plastic back over it. The head rolled with the sudden movement. She bit off a scream.

  "Interesting form of introduction," Cassandra said, looking at Clay. "May I ask who you might be?"

  "Clayton Danvers," Paige muttered between her teeth. "The werewolf Pack's guard dog."

  "The question isn't who's Clay," I said, "but who's that guy in the bag? Anyone up for volunteering information?"

  "We found this man at our cottage last night," Jeremy said. "He was with two others who, I can assure you, are equally dead. They came armed with silver bullets."

  "Silver--" Adam began. "Shit, isn't that supposed to--" He stopped and looked around at the others. "You think we sent these guys?"

  "Look at him," Paige said, turning to me. "Clean-shaven, military brush cut. Just like the guys in Pittsburgh. Obviously--"

  "Obviously nothing," Clay said. "Either the whole Pittsburgh thing was a setup or you dressed these guys to look like Elena's stalker so, if it backfired, we'd draw the obvious conclusion. If these men were part of this kidnapping scheme, why would they come after Jeremy and Elena when you guys were all holed up here in a late-night meeting? You'd be the obvious choice."

  "Maybe they wanted a werewolf," Paige said. "Besides, we always cast protective spells around our meetings. They wouldn't have been able to get to us."

  "So you expected trouble?" I said. "Thanks for warning us. But that doesn't explain how they got here. First they show up in Pittsburgh, then here. How?"

  "They must have followed"--Paige stopped, then murmured--"someone."

  "They followed you," Cassandra said, turning on Ruth. "You led them right to us."

  "Perhaps you weren't behind last night's attack," Jeremy said, "but you can hardly be absolved of blame. Ensuring you weren't followed from Pittsburgh is an elementary safety precaution. If that's how this group operates, then I have no interest in aligning my Pack with you, even temporarily. As you can see"--he gestured at the bag--"we can take care of ourselves. We will continue to do so without your help. Anyone who comes after us or interferes with us again will be treated the same as those three men last night. Anyone. For any reason."

  We left. No one came after us.

  I drove the Explorer back to the motel. It was packed and ready to go. All we had to do was pick up Clay's rental car.

  "Where to next?" I asked as we stood in the motel parking lot.

  "Montreal," Clay said. "We need to return the car."

  I turned to the econo-box rental, noticing the Quebec license plates. "Why the hell did you leave your car in Montreal?"

  "You think I was gonna cruise Vermont looking for a rental agency when I was driving right past a big city?"

  "How about I drive straight home and you guys meet me there?"

  "You're coming to Montreal, Elena," Jeremy said.

  Jeremy headed to the econo-box and folded himself into the tiny passenger seat. Yes, he would have been more comfortable in his Explorer, but that would mean listening to Clay curse the loathed SUV for a few hundred miles. Given the choice between leg cramps and a migraine, Jeremy would choose the former. Riding in the SUV with me and leaving Clay alone in the rental wasn't an option. Until the danger had passed, Clay would stick close to Jeremy, protecting his Alpha as instinct dictated.

  Once Jeremy was in the car, Clay walked over, wrapped his hands around my waist, and pulled me against him.

  "I'll make it up to you," he murmured against my ear. "Tonight. We'll go for a run."

  "In the city?"

  He grinned. "You arguing?"

  "Jeremy will."

  "We'll take him along. I'll talk him into it on the drive. Speaking of which, you wanna liven the ride up a bit?"

  "Race?"

  "You read my mind, darling."

  "A four-banger verses a V6?"

  "It's the driver, not the car."

  "You're on. First one to Montreal gets to pick where we run tonight."

  "One catch," Clay said. "We have to play safe and stay in sight. If I can't see you in my rearview mirror, I'm slowing down."

  "Rearview mirror? Baby, you ain't seeing me through nothing but the windshield."

  He grinned. "We'll see about that."

  Racing through the back roads of Vermont was great fun. Once we got to Highway 87, things would get decidedly dull, but on the two-lane back roads we had to contend with mountains, valleys, towns, blind curves, lane-hogging campers, and poky sightseers. Plenty of close calls. Plenty of excitement. The bad guys didn't need to kill us. If they waited long enough, we'd do it ourselves.

  After about a half-hour, I was stuck behind Clay. My fault. We'd been leapfrogging for miles. I'd been in the lead, then I'd come up behind a fifth-wheeler with a camper on the back and made the mistake of leaving a safe cushion between it and me, which Clay, of course, had zipped into. Now we were stuck on a winding road behind this dullard who insisted on doing the speed limit. Finally, I noticed a straightaway long enough to pass. But Clay didn't pull out. After a moment's thought, I realized why. He couldn't see past the fifth-wheeler. I could. The advantage of driving an SUV--improved vision. Hah! So on the next suitable straightaway, as Clay fishtailed trying unsuccessfully to see around the fifth-wheeler, I pulled out and passed. Once around the truck, I zipped past a car and a tractor trailer. Then I floored it. Clay's subcompact vanished amid an unending stream of tourist traffic. He'd be pissed that I'd broken his "stay in sight" rule, but it served him right, thinking he could outrace me no matter what he drove. Clay's self-confidence could always use a shake-up. He'd catch me soon enough.

  I burned up ten miles with no sign of Clay in the rearview mirror, then slowed. No sense pushing my luck or I'd have Jeremy on my back, too. Jeremy let us play our games, but if I went too far, he'd tear a strip off of me. Besides, I was getting near the highway, and I wanted to be sure Clay was behind me by then. So I eased down to the speed limit, turned the corner onto the gravel road leading to the highway, cranked up the radio, and relaxed.

  A mile or two later, as I was cruising along enjoying the scenery, something appeared in front of me. Something big. Right in front of me. So close I didn't have time to see if it was a moose or a deer or a person. Nor did I have time to think. I reacted. I jerked the steering wheel and hit the brakes. Too hard on both counts. I saw the flash of a face on the roadway. Then the Explorer spun left, and for a second, I thought it might flip over. It didn't. Instead it slammed into the far ditch. The airbag exploded, knocking me in the face like a punching bag. Before I could recover, the driver's door clicked open.

  "Are you okay?" a woman's voice asked. She pulled the airbag from my face and frowned. "Are you okay? That man ran right in front of you. I couldn't believe it."

  I gave my head a shake, groggy, punch-drunk. "A man? Did I hit him?"

  "No. Would have served him right if you had." The woman shook her head. "I guess I shouldn't say that. Let's get you out of there."

  As she helped my out, I got a better look at her. Mid-to late forties. Dark blond hair cut in a chin-length pageboy. Linen dress. Simple gold-chain necklace. Face drawn in concern.

  "Come sit in the back of my car," she said. "I've called an ambulance."

  I hesitated, swaying on my feet. "My friends are coming."

  "Good." She guided me to her car, a sleek black Mercedes, opened the back door, and helped me inside. "We'll wait here for them. How do you feel?"

  "Like someone KO'd me in round one."

  She laughed. "Can't say I know what that feels like, but I can imagine. You're pale, but your color's coming back. Pulse feels fine."

  I felt her fingers against my wrist. Then I felt something else there. A prick. A rush of icy cold. As I yanked my hand back, the driver's door opened. A man got in. He turned to grin back at me.

  "Just couldn't wait for another sparring match, huh?"

  His face flashed in my memory, but
my brain was fogging fast and I couldn't place him. Then, as my muscles went slack, I remembered.

  The half-demon from Pittsburgh. Houdini.

  My head hit the seat. Everything went black.

  CHAPTER 13

  PRISON

  For hours, I fought to regain consciousness, rousing enough to know something was wrong but unable to pull myself awake, like a swimmer who sees the water's surface above but can't reach it. Each time I jetted toward awareness, the tranquilizer's undercurrent dragged me back. Once I felt the rumbling of a van. Then I heard voices. The third time all was still and silent.

  On the fourth round, I managed to open my eyes and kept them open, certain if I closed them I'd be lost. For at least an hour, I lay there, winning against the urge to sleep, but without the strength to do more than stare at a beige wall. Was it beige? Or taupe? Maybe sand. Definitely latex. Eggshell latex. Scary that I knew so much about paint. Scarier still that I was lying there, paralyzed from the eyelids down and trying to figure out what shade my captors had painted my prison. My encyclopedic knowledge of paint was Jeremy's fault. He redecorated obsessively. I mean obsessively. He had his reasons, which were no one's business but his own. If wallpapering the dining room every two years quelled whatever ghosts haunted him, I bit my tongue and pasted. As for why I was thinking about paint at such a ridiculously inopportune moment, well, there wasn't much else I could think about, was there? I could fret and worry and drive myself into a panic wondering where I was and what my captors planned to do with me, but that wouldn't change anything. I couldn't lift my head. I couldn't open my mouth. I couldn't do anything but gaze at this stupid wall, and if brooding over the paint color kept my nerves calm, so be it.

  Taupe. Yes, I was pretty sure it was taupe. My upper lip tingled, like dental anesthesia wearing off. I wrinkled my nose. Slight movement. A smell. Fresh paint. Wonderful. Back to the decorating again. I inhaled deeper. Only paint, the scent so strong it drowned out anything else. No, wait. Something else mingled with the paint. Something familiar. Something ... Blood. Mine? I sniffed again. Not mine, which wasn't terribly reassuring. As I rolled my eyes up, I could see dark splotches under a hastily applied layer of paint. Blood-sprayed walls. Never a good sign.

  I screwed up my face. All muscles functional. Great. Now if someone attacked me, I could bite him, provided he was helpful enough to put some vital body part in my mouth. The tingling moved down my neck. I looked up. White ceiling. Distant noise. Voices. No, one voice. Someone talking? I listened closer and heard the hyper-babble of a DJ. After a Guinness-breaking feat of long-windedness, he stopped. A guitar twanged from the far-off radio. Country music. Damn. They'd resorted to torture already.

  Hand and arm movement. Hallelujah. Digging my elbows into the bed, I propped up my torso and looked around. Four walls. Three taupe. The fourth mirrored. One-way glass. Lovely. By my feet, a bathroom. I could tell it was a bathroom and not a closet because I could see the toilet, not through the door, but through the front wall, which was clear glass. Grade-school bathroom peeping had left someone with a very disturbing fetish.

  More smells. A woman. The room was permeated with her smell. The bed on which I lay had been fitted with fresh, lemon-scented sheets, but the other woman's smell had soaked through to the mattress below. A note of familiarity. Someone I knew? The woman who'd drugged me? No, someone else. Teasingly familiar ... The association clicked. I recognized her scent because it bore overtones from the smell of the blood on the walls. Not a good way to make an acquaintance, and judging by the quantity of dark splotches under the paint, a face-to-face meeting wouldn't be forthcoming. Not in this life at least.

  Hold on. I had hips. Well not really--my baggy-seated jeans always proved otherwise. I mean my anatomical, curve-free hips had movement and feeling. Then legs. Yes! I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and pitched forward onto the floor. Okay, the legs weren't quite back yet. Nice carpet though. Industrial-weave loom. A pleasing blend of gray and brown, great for hiding those pesky blood splatters.

  After a few minutes, I was able to struggle to my feet. I looked around. Now what? Assuming these were the same people who'd captured that shaman, there should be other prisoners in adjoining cells. Maybe I could communicate with them.

  "Hello?" I said. Then louder. "Hello?"

  No response. Doubtless the walls were too thick for jail-house whispering. Even the air coming through the foot-square ceiling vent smelled filtered and processed. Still, if I could hear a radio playing ... I looked around for a speaker. There was an intercom by the door, but the music didn't sound tinny, so I doubted they were piping it in. As I listened, I caught the sound of someone shouting, voice raw, screaming barely intelligible curses. I gauged the distance of the noise. Very muted, probably more than fifty feet away. So it was good soundproofing, but it wasn't werewolf-proof.

  As the shouter took a much-needed vocal break, I heard scratching. Rats? Mice? No, I'd smell them. Besides, my cell was nothing if not clean, as sterilized as a McDonald's kitchen on health inspection day. I rotated my head to pick up the sound. It came from the corridor. Scratch, scratch, pause, scratch, scratch, scratch, swoosh. The swoosh of paper. Some one lifting a page, shuffling it, then scratch, scratch--pen on paper. Someone writing outside my cell. I stood, turned away from the hallway, walked three steps, then whirled to face the door. The noise stopped. I bared my teeth, snarled, then inclined my open mouth closer to the mirrored wall and picked at a piece of imaginary food caught between my teeth. Frenzied scribbling ensued. Okay, now I knew what the note-taker was watching. And I didn't recall signing any consent forms.

  I strode to the door and pounded on the glass. Though it didn't budge under the onslaught, my fists boomed with each strike. I didn't shout. If they couldn't hear my pounding, they certainly wouldn't hear my yelling. A long minute passed. Then the intercom above my head buzzed.

  "Yes?" a woman's voice. Young. Studiously neutral.

  "I want to speak to someone in charge," I said.

  "I'm afraid that won't be possible," she said, pen scribbling.

  I pounded harder.

  "Please don't do that." Calm, approaching boredom. Pen still scratching.

  I drew my fist back and slammed it into the glass. The blow shuddered through the glass and my arm. The pen stopped.

  "I understand you're upset, but that won't help. Violence never solves anything."

  Says who?

  I turned away, as if backing down, then whammed a roundhouse kick against the side wall. One chunk of plaster flew free, revealing a strip of solid metal. I hooked my fingertips behind the metal and gave an experimental tug. No give. But I wasn't really trying. Now if I ripped away enough of this plaster, I could get my fingers behind the metal and give a real good pull ...

  Heavy footsteps clomped outside my cell. Ah, progress.

  The intercom clicked.

  "Please step away from the wall," a male voice intoned.

  He sounded like one of those car alarms from the '90s, where if you made the ghastly error of walking within six inches of some yuppie's Beemer, a mechanical voice warned you to move away, like you might brush against it and leave fingerprints. The last time we'd encountered one of those, Clay had leaped onto the hood of the car, leaving much more than fingerprints. The car owner had been within hearing distance. You've never seen a pudgy forty-something move so fast. Then he'd seen Clay and decided the damage really wasn't so bad after all. Following Clay's example, I did not step away from the wall. I smashed my fist into the plaster between the metal brackets, leaving a nice hole into the adjoining cell.

  The door flew open. A man's face flashed into the room, then withdrew. The door slammed shut. A radio squawked.

  "Base one, this is alpha. Request immediate backup to cell-block one, unit eight."

  "You messing with my girl?" a lazy Midwest drawl asked, voice hissing with static. Houdini. "You sound a wee mite panicked there, soldier-boy. Want me to come down and hold your hand?"


  "Reese? What the hell are you doing in the--Never mind."

  Click. End of static.

  "Cocky bastard."

  "No kidding," I said.

  Silence. Then "Shit," and a snap as the intercom died.

  "Get me someone in charge," I said. "Now."

  A muttered exchange, indecipherable through the glass. Then boots stalking away. I decided not to worry the hole in the wall further. Not yet at least. Instead I hunkered down and peered through it. I might have been gazing into a mirror, a reverse image of my own cell. Only this one was empty. Or so it appeared. I thought of calling through the opening, but hadn't heard the note-taker leave, and there was no sense talking to a potential cell-mate while I had an audience. So I waited.

  Twenty minutes passed. Then the intercom clicked on.

  "My name is Doctor Lawrence Matasumi," a man said in perfectly unaccented American, the region-free tones usually heard only from national news show anchors. "I would like to speak to you now, Ms. Michaels." As if it was his idea. "Please step into the bathroom, lower the seat, straddle the toilet facing the tank, place your hands outstretched behind you, and do not turn your head until instructed."

  Somehow he made such ludicrous instructions sound perfectly rational. I thought of a comeback, but squelched it. This didn't sound like a man who'd appreciate bathroom humor.

  While I was sitting on the john, the exterior door whooshed open, like breaking a vacuum seal. Footsteps entered. One set of loafers, one set of low heels, and two--no, three--pairs of boots.

  "Please do not turn your head," Matasumi said, though I hadn't moved. "Keep your hands outstretched. A guard will enter the bathroom and secure your hands behind your back. Please do not resist."

  He was so polite about it, how could I disobey? Especially considering the twin snaps of gun safety catches that accompanied his instructions. Someone walked into the bathroom and grasped my hands, his touch firm and impersonal--just business, ma'am. He pulled my arms together and clapped cold metal bands around my wrists.

  "The guard will now lead you into the main room. You may take a seat on the chair provided. When you are seated comfortably, the guard will secure your feet."