Chosen Prey

by Cheyenne McCray

  He pushed himself to his feet. His thigh burned and he looked down to see a dart poking out of his leg. He yanked it out. It was a thin cylinder, about six inches long. A syringe. He brought it a few inches from his face. Veterinary. No doubt stolen. No doubt something to disable him while they carted Lyra away.

  He spotted another syringe on the ground. His head spun as he leaned down, but he managed to grab it. Same thing.

  Lyra was gone. The bastards had her and had used the same method to disable her. And she was helpless. If the assholes got the dose wrong, she might even be dying—or dead.

  His mind still reeling, he stumbled to his car. His balance was off from the concussion he’d suffered from hitting his head on the asphalt when he went down. He had to hang on to the open car door until his head stopped spinning.

  Dare braced both hands on top of the car. Pain and rage seared him so completely he couldn’t see. Guilt lay like a heavy weight in his gut.

  She couldn’t be dead. No. They wouldn’t take a chance like that. Their stupid Prophecy—that scum Neal would want her alive, just not able to fight back.

  Dare clenched his fists. He had lost Lyra, but he was damn sure going to get her back.

  He pushed himself away from the car, his head clearing with his determination. He almost fell over when he picked up the baggie of meds. When he opened the car door, he tossed the bag onto the passenger seat.

  Then he wrapped his hands around the cat’s middle. She meowed again as he settled her into the passenger seat, next to the baggie. She looked both indignant and irritated—or something. He slid into the driver’s seat to find the keys dangling from the column. Of course. The car was still running.

  A vein in his forehead began to pulse in time with the pounding in his head. He ground his teeth. His whole body shook with fury as the full realization hit him.

  He hadn’t protected Lyra like he’d promised her.

  Dare put the car in gear and started to head toward Nick’s. His feet were so leaden as he pushed in the clutch and changed gears, he wished he’d bought a car with an automatic transmission.

  The cat screamed and dug her claws into the leather upholstery. The scent of piss was strong as the scared cat clung to the car seat.

  By the time he reached Nick’s place Dare was ready to tear Neal Barker apart, piece by fucking piece.

  After Nick opened the front door, Dare let the cat jump to the floor before he slammed the door shut behind him. His body was shaking almost uncontrollably.

  “Lyra?” Nick said in a too-calm voice.

  Dare swung around to face him, hands clenched into fists. Goddamn, but he needed to hit someone, something, anything.

  “They got her.” Dare’s words came out like a roar. “I didn’t protect her. They got her.”

  Nick scrubbed his hand over his face. “I figured.”

  The cat yowled.

  Dare told Nick the full story. “Before I passed out, I think I heard them say ‘Oregon.’ I think they’re taking her there.”

  Nick’s face darkened and when his gaze met Dare’s, his eyes were cold, calculating.

  Nick went to the wet bar, took out a bottle of scotch, and poured a shot. He strode back to Dare, carrying the scotch, and handed the shot glass to him.

  Dare took it without question and slammed it back. The scotch was expensive and smooth, but it still burned the back of his throat as it went down. Nick took the empty glass from Dare’s hand, refilled it, and gave it back to him. He downed it, welcoming the slow burn. It cleared the fog from his mind and took the edge off his rage.

  “It’s almost oh four hundred.” Nick filled the glass again. “You’re not going to be worth shit if you don’t get some rest, even if it’s only an hour or two,” he said as Dare swallowed a third shot.

  Everything within Dare shouted at him to go to the Oregon compound now and get Lyra out. But he recognized the fact that this time they would have to have reinforcements. Neal would be more than prepared for an attack.

  Dare wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Despite himself, the tenseness in his muscles eased due to the scotch. “All right.” He handed the glass back to Nick, who filled it for a fourth time. After Dare slammed it back, he could feel the alcohol starting to take effect. He rarely drank more than a beer or two, and this scotch was going to knock him on his ass.

  This time he placed the shot glass upside down on the top of the bottle of scotch, then dug into his pockets for the baggie with Mrs. Y’s meds. His sight was already blurring as he took the meds to the wet bar and set the bag on the granite surface. “Directions probably on the bottles. You know what to do.”

  His whole body was on fire from the scotch and his muscles were relaxing to the point where he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand much longer. Not to mention he was still reeling from the blow to his head. He stumbled to the couch and fell flat on his back.

  “An hour,” he mumbled as his sight started to darken. “Wake me up in an hour.”

  * * *

  Dare woke with a start from his recurring nightmare—the bullet hole in his partner’s head wouldn’t leave his mind. Dare’s throat closed as he thought of how he’d let down his partner.

  And now, Lyra.

  Dim light from the skylights told Dare it was early morning. Damn, he’d only planned on sleeping an hour at the most. He didn’t need sleep. He needed to get to Lyra.

  Dare slid his hand over his face. It came away slick with sweat. He swung his legs over the side of the couch and pushed himself to a sitting position. His head spun from the movement and he had to grip the couch cushions until his knuckles ached in order to steady himself. He was pretty sure it was mostly from the drugs and concussion rather than the scotch.

  But neither dulled the stark fact. Dare buried his face in his hands.

  He’d lost Lyra.

  And he’d fallen in love with the woman who was now back in her own personal hell.

  17

  She was dreaming. No, it was a nightmare. Lyra kept her eyes shut tight and refused to open them. It wasn’t possible she was back in the hands of The People. It wasn’t.

  Coarse cloth covered her body, and it chafed her bare breasts. She was naked beneath a robe, its sash tight around her waist. The feel of the handwoven cloth on her body was too familiar for this to be a dream.

  As were the ties at her wrists and ankles. She was flat on her back on some kind of thin mattress, bound, and spread-eagled. Her bindings were made of thick twine and didn’t give a fraction when she tugged against them. Her wrists and ankles ached, her head pounded.

  Tears threatened to spill from behind her closed eyelids, but Lyra forced herself to concentrate on her anger instead.

  Damn Neal. Damn him.

  And someone she’d trusted had betrayed her. Becca had taken money in trade for Lyra’s freedom.

  Her eyes burned even more. It had been so hard to trust anyone, and once again she’d been screwed over.

  She’d trusted Dare to protect her, and here she was.

  No, it wasn’t his fault. She’d known from the beginning that she was responsible for her destiny. She should have insisted on running again until he finally let her go. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew that would never have happened. He had considered it his duty to protect her.

  Lyra bit her lower lip. No more thoughts of that or anything else. She had to focus on the present.

  She needed to open her eyes. She had to face reality eventually. And the sooner she came to terms with her predicament, the sooner she could start making plans on how to get out of it.

  Slowly she lifted her eyelids. Blinked. Her mind spun, and she shut her eyes. When she finally blinked again, some of the fuzziness slipped away. Her surroundings gradually came into focus. She felt soreness in her hip where the men had plunged the needle.

  She was someplace dim, and canvas slanted from poles. A tent, of course. The People lived in tents—except for Neal. He had always lived in the Te
mple itself.

  At the thought of him, her stomach churned. Every time she had thought of him over the past five years, she would get sick to her stomach. Now it was worse.

  This was a much larger tent than she ever remembered any of The People living in. None of The People were allowed to have anything larger than a small tent, or to own anything save their clothing. Everything else was shared and made by The People themselves. They made their own clothing, blankets, soaps, shampoos, candles, and so on.

  There was a light hanging from above, though. A real incandescent light. Probably lit from a generator. The People had to use candles in their tents, and only as long as necessary.

  She tilted her head to see more. She was lying on a thin mattress on the floor and she was tied to metal stakes that had been driven through the canvas floor and into the ground. When her gaze traveled the space, she felt woozy and had to close her eyes for a moment. She opened them and saw that the only other things were an altar, a burning red candle, and a strange object beside it.

  The flicker of the red candlelight through the glass jar was almost mesmerizing. She pulled her gaze from it and saw that the object beside the bar was a bong—she recognized it from being around Neal so much and from the heavy marijuana smell hanging in the air.

  A sudden thought knifed through her and she felt as if she’d been stabbed. She was naked beneath the robe.

  Had she been raped?

  She took deep gulps of air and tried to control her breathing. Of course not. She would have been able to tell the moment she woke up.

  A cold chill iced her heart. If Neal was successful and “married” her, she knew what he would force on her. The thought made her so nauseous that bile rose up in her throat and she felt like throwing up again. She shoved the thought back and steeled herself.

  Would Neal take advantage of her while she was tied up?

  The Prophecy.

  A huge sigh of relief eased through her, and her muscles relaxed some. Part of the Prophecy was that no one, including Neal, was to have sex with her until they were married. Only then would he consummate their joining.

  She closed her eyes for a moment until she was calm enough to open them again. She turned her thoughts to Dare, and a myriad of emotions welled within her. This time she almost did cry. She needed him. To hold her, to love her.

  Her heart ached and she bit her lower lip when a new realization hit her. She’d fallen in love with Dare, with everything about him.

  She loved Dare’s protectiveness, his determination to rescue those he cared about, even a woman and an old lady he didn’t know. His sense of humor, his easy camaraderie with his friend. His sexy grin. The way he kissed her, made love to her, and made her feel whole.

  No matter that she’d been taken, he had her trust…and her love.

  But she just might never see him again if she didn’t find some way out of this mess. Hope flickered within her. Dare and Nick had saved Mrs. Yosko. Could they save her in time, too? What about her mother?

  Lyra frowned. Was she in Arizona, or had they brought her to Oregon? She took a deep breath, and her heart sank. There could be no mistaking the clean Oregon air and the strong scents of cedar and Douglas fir.

  The canvas flap opened and more of the clean, humid mountain air flowed into the tent. For a moment she couldn’t make out the large, dark form ducking into the tent. But when the flap settled closed again and her eyes readjusted to the dimness of the tent, her body went cold.

  Neal.

  He hadn’t changed much in five years. He was still a good-looking man with his high cheekbones, blue eyes, and long black hair that passed his shoulders. He still had that same charismatic smile.

  A smile that made her stomach curdle.

  “Lyra.” Neal’s smile broadened as he lowered himself on one knee beside her. He brushed her hair from her face, and she flinched and tried to move her head away. As if she’d had no reaction to his touch, he continued to stroke her hair. “It’s good to have you back.”

  Lyra didn’t respond. She was afraid to. Too often she had witnessed new inductees being drugged until they settled into The People’s way of life. She needed her wits sharp and clear.

  Neal settled his hand on her belly and she recoiled—only her bonds kept her from moving more than a fraction. He smelled of marijuana.

  “Soon the new Messiah will be growing in your womb,” he said as he pressed his hand against her. “You’re ready now.”

  Lyra swallowed the acid rising up in her throat. She broke out in a sweat. Her stomach heaved. Her eyes watered.

  She turned her head to the side, facing Neal—and puked.

  “Fuck.” His shout as he scrambled away from her barely registered. “Too much juice in that tranquilizer,” he growled.

  She didn’t have much in her stomach, and dry heaves continued to wrack her body. Moisture ran from the corner of her mouth and she shuddered. She saw the swirl of his robe and felt the rush of air over her face as he stormed out of the tent.

  Lyra took deep breaths and turned her head to face the tent’s peak. A bitter laugh lodged in her throat. Yeah, right. A tranq didn’t have anything to do with it.

  In moments, a blond woman ducked into the tent and Lyra turned to look at her. Shock registered on her face, probably from seeing Lyra tied down. The woman carried several coarse cloths, two cups, and a cloth bag. She composed her features and knelt on the floor beside the mattress.

  “I’m Carrie.” The woman lifted the back of Lyra’s head and brought the cup to Lyra’s lips. “Take a drink of water, swish, and spit into this empty cup.”

  Water dribbled down her chin as she obeyed, but she was relieved to get most of the taste out of her mouth after a few swishes.

  When she finished, the woman named Carrie set the cups aside and she dabbed a wet cloth down the side of Lyra’s face. Carrie was pretty, with green eyes, a small nose, and her long blond hair tucked behind her ears. “I’m not even going to ask where you came from or how you ended up like this,” Carrie murmured. “I just hope he unties you soon.”

  “Sorry you have to clean this up.” Lyra looked back at the ceiling of the tent. She couldn’t watch Carrie or she’d end up with more dry heaves.

  The mattress dipped where Carrie wiped up the mess, and Lyra heard the sound of cloth scrubbing cloth. “Hope you feel better,” Carrie said, and Lyra turned to look at her. She stuffed the wet cloths into the bag, then picked it up along with the cups. The woman gave Lyra one last sad look and slipped out of the tent.

  Lyra gave a deep shuddering sigh as she stared up again. She still tasted and smelled acid, but it wasn’t as bad. Would she throw up every time Neal touched her?

  Again, canvas rustled and Neal entered the tent. His face appeared above hers and he scowled. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from spewing venom. That would definitely earn her a pill of some kind or another.

  “Don’t you have anything to say, Lyra?” Neal raised one eyebrow.

  “Please untie me.” She glanced up at one of her wrists and back to Neal. “They hurt.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “My flock needs to see you with me before our joining tonight.”

  Tonight?

  “They need to see the woman who’ll be the new First Wife.” He reached into a pocket of his robe and brought out a pocketknife. “As long as you behave like a Prophet’s wife should, then I’ll allow you to remain free.” His eyes turned cold and his smile vanished. “But if you so much as look at the gates, I’ll have you bound until our joining ceremony. Do you understand?”

  Lyra nodded in quick, jerky movements. “Yes.”

  He raised his eyebrow again, giving her an imperious look. “Yes, what?”

  She blinked. Tried to think what he meant. Oh. “Yes, Prophet.”

  18

  Dare continued to sit on the couch cushions, staring at the floor, until the spinning in his head slowed and his vision cleared. He’d failed Lyra. A stinging sensation pinch
ed at the back of his eyes and he ground his teeth.

  He wasn’t going to let her down again. He’d get that Neal Barker and he’d get to Lyra, no matter what it took.

  When he could look up, he ignored the churning in his gut and saw Nick standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

  “’Bout time you woke up.” Nick raised a cup with steam wafting from it. The smell of coffee filtered through his senses. “Got a fresh batch brewing.”

  Dare pushed himself up from the couch and onto his unsteady feet. He was still wearing the same clothing he’d worn last night when they’d gone to Becca, the little bitch who had betrayed Lyra.

  Lyra. Dare flexed his hands at his sides. He couldn’t get the thought out of his head. He’d let her down. Goddamnit, he’d let her down.

  Nick headed back through the archway and Dare followed, his legs growing less unsteady as he moved.

  When he reached the kitchen, he blinked at the bright light and put his hand over his eyes for a moment before dragging it down his face. His stubble chafed his palm.

  He took the steaming mug of black coffee from Nick and inhaled as he brought it up to his mouth. Just the rich aroma helped to clear his head. The coffee burned his tongue as he took a long draught.

  “What time is it?” Dare growled after another hit of the strong brew. “Why didn’t you wake me, Donovan?”

  “Six a.m.” Nick lowered his mug. “You needed the rest and so did I.”

  “Well, good morning to you,” came Mrs. Yosko’s voice from the kitchen nook.

  Dare turned and saw the old lady sitting at the table, petting the calico cat perched in her lap. He hadn’t noticed Mrs. Y was in the room.

  “Got some cereal for you.” Nick put a box of cornflakes, a quart of milk, a bowl and spoon, and a sugar jar in front of the elderly woman. “A can of tuna for Dixie, too. I’d fix you something a little more appetizing but Dare and I need to get our plans made and get out of here.”

  “Hmph,” she said, but by the gleam in her eyes, Dare figured the lady enjoyed putting on a crotchety facade.