by Karen Chance
I had a sudden flood of memories, not mine, but vivid just the same: the hulk I was inhabiting once small and frightened, his young wrists scarred from shackles he couldn’t break, his child ribs showing through the scraps of clothing he wore, yet being forced to fight nonetheless. Because if he did not, the rod came, the tip of which felt like fire. It hurt; it burned. And, eventually, if used enough, it killed.
So he fought, even though he knew his role wasn’t that of victor. He was to be loaned out to battles as one of the bodies carried away at the end of the night, to give the crowd the blood it craved, yet spare the better combatants. The ones who chose to be there, as he did not.
Yet, again and again, they were the ones carried away, and he remained, battle-scarred and seething, growing larger than them all, and waiting . . . for his chance. Not to live; he had nothing left to go back to. He didn’t know where they’d found him, who his people were, didn’t even know his true name. Only the one they’d given him: Magdar. It meant “cudgel” in some Earth tongue, and that was all he’d ever been.
What did he know of life?
No, his plan wasn’t escape, but to do what he’d been trained to do: to kill. This slaver, the one who owned him now; the others, who had had him before—until he became too much to handle; THE slavers, the two who had taken him from his home, who had ripped him from his mother’s arms, who had dragged him screaming through a portal.
Into this never-ending nightmare.
Killers. Abusers. Desecrators.
He would have them; he would have them all.
And I will help you, I promised, while scenting the air, drawing in great bushelfuls at a time, filling the great chest. And no, I hadn’t been wrong. I could still smell him, and not just the residue his presence had left behind. But him, although distant now, indistinct.
And getting more so by the second.
We let out a roar and leapt across the roof, to the side facing the parking lot. With the distance and these eyes, I couldn’t make out much, even with the lot lights spearing the darkness. But I could see movement, and a slim, pale shape weaving among the cars, because that portal hadn’t gone to Faerie, had it? It had let out somewhere near the bottom of this building, like an emergency slide without the slide, and now our prey was getting away.
And I couldn’t catch him like this.
Your shackles are gone, I reminded the other. Come find me when this is over. And we will hunt again.
I felt the nod, the way I had when I’d made my initial offer. And then the disorientation of a mental flight hit me, a thousand minds crowding in from all sides, all at once. Overwhelming, exhausting, thrilling . . .
Until I burst free of the building and soared into the night.
I didn’t have much time, and not only because of the slaver. I couldn’t hold free flight for long; I had to have an avatar, and soon. But there were far fewer options out here.
There were some vendors cleaning up and getting ready for another onslaught after the fight. There were a few drunks under tables and slumped in tents, too far gone to care about the night’s revelries. There was a bag lady with her little cart, who had wandered in through the unwatched gate, because its keepers had snuck away to the fights. And who was now staring around, her mouth hanging open.
None of which could help me.
But he could.
The troll my twin had sent to watch her weapons was sitting in the cab of our truck. The door was open, because there wasn’t enough room for him to be comfortable inside even with the seat all the way back. He was therefore sitting sideways, one huge leg bent over the other, to bring his foot up to his face.
So he could pick at his toes.
These creatures would have fascinated me another time, how clear, how clean their minds were. With none of the anxiety, the constant worry, the thousand pesky thoughts even a dull-witted human had running in the background all the time. This one was simply thinking about his toe, and the splinter that had somehow wedged itself into the tender flesh around his cuticle.
He was perfect.
And a moment later, he was straightening up, was twisting around in the driver’s seat, was grasping the wheel—
And was then just sitting there.
Because neither of us knew how to drive.
I cursed, and felt his apology; he wanted to help. Not your fault, I told him, and then cursed again, the deep sound echoing around the cab as the albino sped past us in a red sports car. One that screamed its way out of the lot a moment later, but we had no way to follow. The troll didn’t know what to do, and my twin’s mind was still unconscious, buried under a couple of fallen combatants. Even had I been willing to risk direct contact, she couldn’t help me.
Damn it!
Someone knocked on the door of the cab. I looked out and saw the bag lady from before, hanging off the side of the truck, gripping the mirror. And looking more than a little disturbed. She was babbling and pointing back the way we’d come, as if trying to tell somebody about the madness she’d just witnessed.
Until her bleary eyes caught mine, and she registered who it was, exactly, she was talking to.
She jumped down, surprisingly spry for her age, and took off, her shopping cart speeding in front of her. But I caught her mind—interesting—and made an offer. Not a demand; such things were difficult, and dangerous if the unwilling one was about to be piloting a few tons of racing metal.
But no such pressure was needed.
I saw her slow, saw her shoulders twitch. Saw the question in her mind, and knew the answer. She looked back, the fear in her eyes suddenly replaced by something else.
And then I was sliding over to the passenger side, and she was scrambling into the cab.
She was a strange-looking creature, with half-smoked cigarettes sticking out of her frowzled gray afro in a dozen places, patched skirts bunched up around her wrinkled knees, and the smell of alcohol on her breath.
“I really shouldn’t be driving,” she told me conversationally, as the engine turned over. “I drink, you know.”
“Hit the gas,” I growled, and we took off, the truck lurching ahead from a dead stop, and then screeching around a corner.
It had taken us only a moment to get going, but our vehicle was slow, and with the slaver’s head start, I was afraid we would be too late. But then I saw him up ahead, stopped at a red light. Because humans are creatures of habit even when running for their lives.
Until he saw us, coming up fast behind him, and shot ahead, barreling through the intersection and getting clipped by a truck in the process.
It spun him around, but didn’t do much to slow him down.
But the few seconds it took for him to get oriented bought us some useful time. The trolls we had come with had seen his flight as well, and had rushed down the length of the building, emerging on the sidewalk at a lumbering run as we shot past. And then stopped on a dime, my huge, borrowed arm sticking out of the window to beckon them forward.
They got in.
The truck sagged with their weight, making it even slower than before, but I wanted backup in case he was leading us to some of his own. And then the light changed and we went charging forward, the gas pedal all the way down because our driver had a crazy gleam in her eyes. Maybe she really shouldn’t be driving, I thought—too late.
But it seemed to be working. And the added weight ensured that we did not, in fact, end up on three wheels when she took a corner at a somewhat startling speed. “Ha, ha!” she said, cackling and rocking back and forth, the crazy eyes full-blown now.
“Watch the road,” I grumbled, and she nodded vigorously.
And, to be fair, while we plowed through a mailbox, a light pole, and part of a florist shop, we did not lose the red car. I couldn’t see the slaver too well in this guise, but when I slipped briefly into the old woman’s mind, I saw him glance at us over hi
s shoulder, his eyes huge and one of his long, white hands gripping the steering wheel. While the other—
“Gun!” the woman and I said together, as the first bullet tore through the windshield, cracking it all at once.
“Gun, gun, gun, gun, gun, gun, gun!” she informed me, as we started slinging around the road, as if she were trying to dodge the bullets.
“Stay on target,” I growled, slipping back into the one called Sten. And starting to climb out of the door when someone tapped us on the shoulder.
I looked back, and the red-haired troll woman draped something over my head. When I looked down again, my borrowed body had transformed into that of a bulky human male with hairy arms. As had those of the trolls in the back of the truck, who could have been my brothers by appearance, yet were staring at me oddly.
“Thank you,” I rumbled.
“We talk later,” she said, and gave me a push.
Sten and I finished our transition to the hood of our vehicle and paused, to judge the distance.
He seemed to think we could make it, and he was proved right when we leapt from the front of our vehicle and smashed down onto the roof of the small red car. It had already been low to the ground and was now sending up sparks as we slung around another corner. Because the glamourie the woman had provided did nothing to change bulk, and Sten was well-fed.
But not well enough.
Slow him more, Sten told me, and sent a visual of us hanging off the back of the car, digging in our heels.
Better way, I told him back, and plunged our hand through the flimsy car top, ripping it open like a can and leaving the albino exposed.
He didn’t seem to like that, judging by the amount of bullets suddenly hitting us. Which didn’t penetrate even at this distance, but which hurt Sten the way bee stings would hurt a human. And caused him to put one of his huge hands in front of our eyes to protect them.
And before I could explain to him that I couldn’t kill something I couldn’t see, the car had raced around a curve and plunged down a hill, jittering and juddering as if we were no longer on a road.
Because we weren’t, I realized, as Sten parted two huge fingers enough to show us a construction site, which the albino had turned the car into. One crowded with equipment and silvered with moonlight, which was why I could see anything at all. But not in time.
A large girder dangling from a crane came out of nowhere and hit us in the head, sweeping us off the back of the car as the albino tore underneath. And almost causing us to be run over by our own support team, who were right behind. But the bag lady saw us and swerved, sending the truck flying up a dirt ramp and sailing over our heads—
And over the albino’s.
He had taken another ramp, this one going down into the ditch that was going to be the foundation of the new building someday. And abruptly realized that he had no way out except back the way he’d come, which was why he’d just spun around. In time to see the huge truck—heavy in its own right, and now also loaded down with troll—come hurtling at him off the edge.
I assume he did not see it hit down, since it landed directly on top of him and the little red car.
The crunch was . . . satisfying.
After a moment, Sten got back to his feet and lumbered to the edge of the ditch.
“Olga all right,” he observed, watching her and the rest of the trolls climb out of the ruined truck and get some distance.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Slaver . . . could be,” he added, sounding less sure.
And then abruptly stepped back when the car went up, the explosion big enough to engulf both vehicles in a ball of fire and a column of billowing black smoke.
“Maybe not,” he conceded.
I sent the image to Magdar, along with the sounds and smells and memories of the chase.
One, he sent back.
I smiled.
Chapter Six
I woke up in a bed that smelled of butterscotch.
My favorite flavor, I thought, stretching. And rolled onto something muscle hard and skin soft that was taking up most of my bed. Like warm candy, I thought, my lips finding a nipple.
Strong hands gripped my waist.
“You aren’t up to this,” Louis-Cesare’s voice informed me.
“Neither are you, but give me a minute.”
I went back to the candy.
Until I was rolled over, which should have been pleasurable but which surprisingly . . . was not.
“Ow,” I said, my ribs protesting vocally.
“I told you.”
I opened my eyes to find a curtain of auburn hair falling on either side of my face, my favorite blue eyes looking down at me in concern, and my hands caught above my head to keep them out of trouble.
Damn, he knew I liked that.
It made for a challenge.
The blue eyes took on a rueful gleam, and the delicious chest moved back, just out of reach.
“I’m serious,” he informed me. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Dhampir,” I reminded him. “Don’t need a doctor. Unless he’s doctor luuuv.”
That got me a burst of laughter and an eye roll. Because Louis-Cesare seemed to like it when I was silly. Especially when I was naked and silly.
I slid along underneath him, and watched those gorgeous eyes catch fire. I’d never known blue could burn before I met him, I thought, right before warm lips caught mine. And, yes, they were very nice lips. And a very nice tongue. And very nice teeth, nipping at me gently.
I wrapped my legs around him, because that was more like it.
And suddenly found myself vertical, with hard hands under my butt and strong legs carting me off somewhere, which turned out to be the bathroom.
I can work with this, I decided, as my backside came to rest on the countertop.
He leaned over to start the shower, and I enjoyed a view of the world’s greatest ass for a moment. And then the world’s greatest chest, when he stood back up. Which was nice to look at but even nicer to rest my head against, the skin-to-skin contact just so . . . damned . . . good. Warm like the bed had been, and the shower would be—in half an age, because the ancient water heater took its time. Not that I minded, I thought drowsily, my hands sliding over intriguing dips and valleys . . .
And then spazzing out, when I was suddenly drenched by a warm waterfall.
“W-what?” I choked, staring around wildly—
At the inside of my bath.
It looked the way it always did: cracked blue and white tile on the walls, fat old porcelain fixtures on the claw-foot tub, eyelet shower curtain billowing out because my roommate had decorated the place and she’s a girlie girl.
And because of the steam.
The shower was hot.
“How . . . how did you do that?” I asked Louis-Cesare, who had turned me around to soap up my back.
“Do what?” he murmured, as I braced my hands on the tile and wondered, What the hell?
“The water.” I struggled to think past the rhythmic soothing of those callused hands. “It’s hot.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be?”
“Yes, but not now. It takes forever—”
“Almost fifteen minutes,” he agreed. “You need a new—what do they call it? The device that heats the water.”
“A water heater, and no, I don’t. I need to know what’s going on.” I twisted around, because all the stroking was making my brain fuzzy, and I needed to be sharp right now.
Louis-Cesare’s forehead wrinkled slightly. “I am helping you to bathe. The doctor said it would relieve some of your stiffness—”
“Not about that! About the time.”
“What time?” The wrinkle was starting to deepen.
“You just said we’ve been in here fifteen minutes—”
He n
odded. “About that, why?”
“Because I don’t remember them. I don’t remember any of them!”
I stared around, suddenly feeling trapped. It felt like the curtains were closing in. Only it wasn’t the curtains, it was me, and how do you feel claustrophobic in your own skin?
I was finding out.
“Dorina—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Dory, then,” Louis-Cesare said, his voice deliberately soothing. Like I didn’t know what that was. Like I wouldn’t pick up on a vampire suggestion after half a lifetime of them!
Exactly half a life, I thought, my skin going cold despite the hot water pattering down.
I had to get out of here!
“Dory!”
The sharpness of the tone suddenly snapped me back, and I looked dizzily up at a wet master vampire, water dripping off his now dark brown hair, and more drops trembling on his brows and lashes. Louis-Cesare clothed and dry was stunning. Louis-Cesare naked and wet could have stopped traffic for a forty-mile stretch. But my panic didn’t seem to care.
“What is wrong?” he demanded, somehow holding on to me, despite my current, soapy state.
“I told you! I don’t remember, and Dorina—” I stopped to stare around some more, like I expected to find her hanging off the ceiling or something. Like a bat.
I was losing it.
“She isn’t here,” Louis-Cesare told me, the wrinkle a full-on frown now.
“Well, she was a minute ago!”
“She wasn’t—”
“And how would you know?” I snarled, because he didn’t get it. I’d been told I was mad my whole life, but most of the time, it hadn’t felt like it. Most of the time, I’d moved through society—a lot of them—perfectly fine. I talked to people, I contracted work, I handled my shit.
Except when she showed up.
But even that hadn’t been so bad—okay, that was a lie; it had been fucking terrifying—but at least there were rules. Ones I’d learned to understand, to respect, to keep the scary thing inside me pacified and absent. It hadn’t been a perfect system, but it had worked.
Until now.
