by Rebecca York
“Damn you,” she muttered aloud, wondering if somebody was watching her or listening. And laughing their ass off because she was just another bimbo who’d been brought here by a boyfriend who found the ship’s delights more tempting than his old familiar partner.
But what if he needed her? Again her stomach clenched. Too bad he wasn’t wearing a transponder so she could track him. But there hadn’t been time for that kind of advanced preparation.
oOo
Cole lay on the bed, listening to the conversation around him. He was sure the people talking were standing right there beside him, but their voices seemed to be coming to him from far away.
“I’m talking to you, loser. Pay attention. Who did you come here with?”
He struggled to wrap his mouth around the answer.
“Emma.”
“Emma who?”
“Emma . . . Ray.” He thought about it for a moment. “That’s a weird name, don’t you think?” he muttered, then wondered why he’d volunteered the information
“Did she have another name before you brought her to the Windward?”
“Huh?”
“Is that her real name.”
“Unless she lied to me,” he answered. He laughed at his own witticism.
“What’s your business on the Windward,” the guy said. Had he asked that question before? How many questions had he asked? Were they going over everything again? Cole couldn’t be sure.
“Your business on the Windward,” the guy prompted.
“Did you ask me that before?”
“Yeah. Answer me.”
“Not business, pleasure,” he muttered, struggling to hold it together. He closed his eyes, drifting. Did he hear another question? Or was that just something echoing in his head?
The man named Ben shook him hard, his voice insistent, but Cole did his best to ignore the distraction. He was done with answering.
“You’d better be straight with me,” the man said. It sounded like he was shouting in Cole’s ear.
“Let me sleep,” he muttered.
“I don’t think we’re going to get anything more out of him,” the interrogator said. “Not right now. Maybe with something stronger. Go get the . . .”
He didn’t hear what it was.
“I need authorization,” the woman answered. “That stuff can really mess with his mind.”
“I’m giving you authorization,” Ben snapped. “If Mickey has any objections, tell him to call me.”
Cole had stopped paying attention to the conversation, but he sensed the woman walking away from the bed. When the door closed behind her, Cole hoped they’d leave him alone for a while.
Instead Ben gripped his shoulder and shook him hard.
“Cut it out.”
“Let’s try again, while she’s gone.”
“No.”
“You don’t get a choice. I said, we’re trying again.”
“Let me sleep.”
In a surprising move, the guy slapped him hard across the face. The ringing blow stung. Cole blinked, his mind swimming back to some semblance of coherence.
“What the hell?’
“Did I get your attention, buddy?” the man said in a harsh voice.
Cole tensed.
When the guy pulled back his hand again, Cole rolled away and came up swinging.
Putting everything he could into the blow, he connected with Ben’s jaw, and the man fell back, sprawling on the floor.
Cole stared at him, trying to make his mind work. “Got to get out of here,” he muttered as he pushed himself off the bed and staggered toward the door.
He didn’t entirely understand what was happening, but he knew that he had to get away before the woman came back—and they gave him something that was going to make him feel worse.
Somehow he stayed on his feet and staggered toward the door.
It seemed impossibly far away, but finally he made it across the carpet, then into the corridor where he stood swaying. He didn’t have much time. The woman might come back at any minute, and he’d better not be here when she did.
oOo
Cole steadied himself with a hand against the wall, struggling to clear his head as he inched along. He was in danger of falling on his face with every step, but he was also desperate to get out of the hallway.
“Oh Christ,” he muttered as he kept stumbling along.
Did he hear footsteps? Was the woman coming back? With the drug that was going to mess with his brain even more. He couldn’t let her catch him.
Gritting his teeth, he picked up his pace and made it to the next door. Praying that it was unlocked, he twisted the knob. At least he’d been granted a bit of luck. The door opened, and he tumbled inside, closing the barrier behind him. He flopped to the carpet, breathing hard, struggling not to pass out. But the exertion had wiped out the last of his strength, and he lost the battle for consciousness.
oOo
Stella stepped back into the interrogation room, looking around in confusion. “What the hell happened? Where is he?”
From where he sat on the rug with his back pressed against the side of the bed, Ben looked up into Stella’s incredulous face.
He made an angry sound. “The bastard decked me and got away.”
“How could he deck you? He was in pretty bad shape.”
“I made a mistake and got rough with him. I guess it woke him up enough to fight me off.”
“And he knocked you out?”
“Don’t rub it in.”
She kept her gaze fixed on him. “We were supposed to get the real dope on his background. I’d like to be there when you explain to Del Conte how you screwed up.”
Ben scowled at her. “It’s my problem, not yours. I’ll take care of it.” He cleared his throat. “But you were here during the interrogation. He gave all the right answers. Lying would be impossible after drinking that stuff.”
“Then why did you want to give him something stronger?”
“As a precaution.” He sighed. “This would have been a quick fix. But I’ll keep digging into his background. And Emma Ray’s. Maybe that’s the only way to break his story.”
“Are we going to look for him?”
“For now, let’s leave him on the loose and see where he turns up. If he’s gone to ground somewhere, we can start searching.”
“Can he make it back to his room, do you think?”
“Maybe. If he does, we should find out something when his honey starts asking questions about where he’s been. Too bad we didn’t douse him with perfume so she could get really mad.”
Stella laughed. “Before he drank the stuff, he seemed uptight.”
“Maybe the drug loosened him up. Maybe he’ll say something he wouldn’t otherwise.”
oOo
Cole’s eyes snapped open. For long moments he lay very still, dragging in gulps of air and letting them trickle from his lungs as he struggled to figure out why he was lying on the carpet of a room he didn’t remember entering.
Easy, he told himself. Take it easy. What’s the last thing you remember?
Walking down a corridor.
And then?
Nothing.
The absolute void sent a wave of panic surging through him.
He moaned and moved his paw against the carpet.
His paw?
Looking down at his body, he saw gray fur.
Jesus. Somewhere along the line he’d changed to wolf form.
Fighting rising panic, he forced himself to lie very still and catalogue sensations. The soft fibers of the rug under his furry body. The throbbing of powerful engines. The pounding in his head.
There were only two reasons why he would have changed. Because he was in danger. Or for the pleasure of running through the forest.
One thing he knew, there were no forests here. He might not remember the past few . . . hours? But he knew he was on a ship.
The name of the craft came to him. It was the Windward. He remembered
coming here. With Emma.
Oh Lord, where was Emma?
He wanted to howl, only someone would hear him if he did.
Instead, he tried to bring his recent life into focus; but the memories swimming in his mind were blurry. Had Big Ben been asking him questions? Had he met a woman?
He had a vague recollection of someone with dark hair and a green dress. Was he making that up? If not, what had he done with her?
His throat clenched as he fought to maintain his sanity. Something had happened. Something bad.
In the dim light filtering in through the window, he looked around. He saw a wide bed, a dresser. A door that probably led to a bathroom.
The accommodations were upscale, but not quite as luxurious as the suite he and Emma had been assigned.
As he thought of her, his throat clenched again. They’d been fighting.
Why?
So he could leave the room, he thought, but he wasn’t sure.
But he should never have abandoned her. He started for the door, then remembered he couldn’t turn the damn knob with his paw. Or walk the corridors of the ship, for that matter. When they’d first arrived and heard gunshots, they’d been told that an animal had escaped.
Were there really animals here? And even if the explanation was a lie, a lone wolf was going to attract attention.
Yeah, right.
He forced himself to stand on legs that weren’t quite steady. His mouth was dry as cotton and tasted awful. He needed a drink, but he couldn’t get one until he changed.
Quickly he began to say the chant that changed him from wolf to man. Of course he couldn’t speak it aloud as a wolf. But the familiar words surged through his head.
Taranis, Epona, Cerridwen, he recited, then repeated the same phrase and went on to another.
Soon his body would begin to change, the fur transmuting to skin. Muscles and tendons transforming from those of a wolf to a man.
Ga. Feart. . .
The sound of a doorknob turning had him stopping in mid-sentence.
Someone was coming into the room.
He hadn’t gotten halfway through the chant, and he was still a wolf. Could he hide? Crawl behind the bed?
No. A wolf didn’t hide. A wolf stood his ground.
A man stepped into the room and flipped on the light. A man wearing the uniform of Del Conte’s security force.
He and the wolf both blinked in the sudden brightness.
“What the hell?”
There was a moment of astonishment when the man stared at the savage beast. Then his training kicked in, and a gun materialized in his hand.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Before the man could get the gun into firing position, the wolf leaped on him, knocking him to the floor.
He might have gone for the gun hand, but then what? He didn’t even have to think. He acted on instinct, his sharp teeth slashing through the flesh and bone of the man’s neck.
He made a gurgling noise, struggling to fire his weapon. But it was already too late. The wolf’s teeth slashed through the carotid artery.
Blood spurted, and the wolf sucked it in, caught in the exhilaration of the battle. It was over quickly.
As the man went still, the wolf stepped back, staring down at his prey.
But the wolf’s thoughts fought the human insights in Cole’s mind. He had killed. In self defense. Still, he had to deal with the consequences.
The fight had been brief, but it had weakened him. He dropped to the rug, panting, gathering his strength.
When he felt a little better, he staggered across the room and looked out, staying well back.
Mercifully, nobody was in the hall. What if a guest had been out there? Would he have had to kill him too?
He thrust that thought from his mind as he pushed the door closed with his head, waiting a minute while he gathered his resources again.
Then he began the chant that had been interrupted, feeling his muscles and tendons jerk, tasting blood in his mouth as he transformed into a naked man. Sucking air into his lungs, he staggered across the carpet toward the door and turned the lock.
Again he had to rest. This time he stared at the dead man on the floor, thinking about where to hide the body.
When the answer came to him, he laughed.
He was on a ship. All he had to do was toss the evidence overboard. Yeah, if he could get the body to an open deck without being questioned.
His brain was still fuzzy, and he struggled to plot out a plan of action. Finally, he decided that his best chance was in the guard’s uniform. Too bad the shirtfront was soaked with blood. But the good news was that the blue color would hide some of the mess.
He stripped off the guy’s shirt and pants, then took the shirt into the bathroom. First, he took a long drink of cold water. It helped to clear his head a little, which only made his lack of recent memories more disturbing. As he searched his mind for facts, he washed out as much of the blood from the shirt as he could.
The hair dryer at the sink came in handy for partially drying the fabric.
He dressed in the uniform, thankful that the clothing fit him reasonably well. His own clothes were in a heap on the floor where he must have torn them off. He folded them up so he could carry them over his arm.
Remembering the specifications of his own room, he went to the closet where he found the spare blanket neatly wrapped in a large plastic case.
Since rigor mortis hadn’t yet set in, he was able to fold the body up and stuff it into the bag.
After making sure that the safety was off, he slid the gun into his pocket, hoping he didn’t have to use it.
There was still a large bloodstain in the middle of the carpet, but that was going to be someone else’s problem.
He stripped the spread off the bed, and folded it around the plastic case. Then he sat down heavily at the desk, resting again as he pulled out the Windward guest literature and determined the closest open deck and the best way to get there. He thought he was on Deck Three. He’d have to verify that. If so, he could get to the outside on Deck Four.
He was exhausted beyond belief, and it was tempting to simply leave the body in the room, but it would start to smell, security would come to investigate, and they’d find the man had been mauled by a large animal. Better to follow his original plan.
After taking several deep breaths, he got up and wiped off anything he might have touched before unlocking the door. Seeing the corridor was empty, he picked up the wrapped-up body and started down the hall, keeping his head down.
He made it to the stairwell without incident, and saw from the number on the door that Deck Four was the next one up.
Grimly he started to climb. But he’d made it only halfway when he heard voices above him.
He couldn’t run back. His only option was to stop where he was and hope for the best.
Leaning against the wall, he put down the wrapped body and got out the gun, hoping he wasn’t going to have to use it.
A young man and a woman came into view. He was blond and muscular. She was slender and Asian, and groaning softly as the man spoke quietly to her, supporting her weight. Naked to the waist, she looked like she’d been whipped.
As the man spotted a guard holding a gun, surprise and anger clouded his face. “What are you going to do, shoot us and claim we’re part of the mutiny?”
“No.”
The man snorted.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” Cole advised.
“What do we have to lose?”
“Everything. Just go on past. I’m not going to stop you.”
“Why should we trust you?”
“Because I’m on your side.”
The man answered with a harsh laugh.
The woman dug her fingers into his arm. “Come on,” she whispered.
To his relief, they slipped quickly past him. Feeling queasy, he waited until they were a level down before picking up his bundle and heading up the stairs again. To his vast relief, h
e saw no one else.
On Deck Four, he stepped out of the stairwell and headed for the exterior of the ship.
He crossed quickly to the railing, hoisted the body up, and threw it over the side, hearing it splash as it hit the water and seeing the wrapping spread out in the water.
He hadn’t weighted down the package because he’d known he couldn’t carry anything extra. Maybe that wouldn’t matter, since the Windward was moving at a good clip. Maybe sharks would take care of the evidence.
It was tempting to keep the guard’s weapon, but having the gun in his possession was too incriminating. After a moment’s hesitation, he tossed the gun over the side as well.
Again, he heard footsteps and faded into the shadows. This time it was an older man and a young woman, laughing and talking, obviously drunk. Hopefully, they wouldn’t remember a random guard out on the deck.
When they had passed, he ducked into a storage closet and stood leaning against the wall. Had he really gotten away with murder?
Not murder. Self-defense he reminded himself.
Yeah, but the guard had only been doing his job.
On this hellhole of a ship.
Those thoughts chased themselves around in Cole’s mind as he pulled off the uniform and put on his own clothes. After emerging from the closet, he tossed the uniform over the rail.
Now what?
Was it better to go back to the cabin?
Or leave Emma hanging out to dry on her own?
No choice at all, really. But where was his room, exactly. Deck Three?
No, they’d been moved to Deck Seven. Somehow he managed to dredge up the room number.
Almost too exhausted to stand, he headed for the stairs again. Centuries later, he finally located his room.
He couldn’t find his key, and when he knocked on the door, nothing happened.
He knocked again, louder.
The door flew open, and Emma stepped into his line of vision.
A whole wealth of confused emotions welled inside him. Relief. Apology. Shame.
What he saw in her eyes was anger—which had to be fueled by worry.
“Where in the hell have you been?”
He hadn’t been sure how he was going to act when he came in. Now he understood that he had to be Cole Mason.
