Hour of the Lion

by Cherise Sinclair

  'Untying you won‘t do any good,' the boy said. 'We‘re still locked in.'

  'Not for long, buddy,' she muttered. 'What‘s your fucking name, anyway?'

  'It‘s Lachlan—and you sure swear a lot.'

  'I‘m planning to stop.' She winced at his disbelieving look. 'Really.' And the assholes who grabbed her should get totally fucked for messing up her fucking good intentions.

  'Gramps always says people only swear because their vocabulary is limited.'

  '‗In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer,‘' she said absently.

  'What?'

  'Mark Twain.' Now, had they taken everything from her pockets or just her wallet? 'Of course, compared to Kipling, he‘s a wussy.'

  He smiled. 'Ya know, I think my grandpa would like you. I like you too.' He looked shy as a little kid, and her heart ached. How could he endure all this and still show such sweetness?

  She cleared her throat. 'Well, uh, good.' Card...card. She patted her back pockets, felt something stiff in one, and elation bubbled through her. 'Look.' She pulled the city transit ticket out of her pocket.

  Lachlan craned his neck to frown at the little brown card. 'Vicki? City transit is good, but I don‘t think the bus stops at this cage.'

  She laughed. 'Watch and learn, young Skywalker.' Carefully, she tore the card into a narrow strip, then ripped some more and folded it into an 'M' shape.

  'Origami?' Lachlan said doubtfully, 'My grandfather might enjoy it. He likes weird stuff.'

  The, ' I miss him' was so soft, she almost didn‘t hear it.

  'How does Gramps feel about lock-picking?' She wrapped the heavy paper around one arm of the combination lock, wiggling and shoving the bottom of the 'M' into the crevice until she felt the click.

  'The Force is with us.' She yanked the padlock open.

  'Fucking A!'

  'Don‘t swear,' she said primly and shoved the cage door open. 'Let‘s go.'

  When he tried to stand, his legs buckled, dropping him back on the floor. He kept trying anyway, struggling for air like a landed fish. Hell, the boy was so thin, she could see his ribcage jerk with each heartbeat. The bastards had almost killed him.

  'Kid. Quit. You‘ll give yourself a heart attack.'

  'I won‘t stay here,' he gritted out. Shoving his fingers into the wire, he pulled himself a foot toward her. His determination was appalling, yet awe-inspiring. 'Even if Swane doesn‘t do it, I‘m dead anyway.'

  'What the hell does that mean? No, don‘t tell me. Just shut up.' She grabbed his arms and dragged him out, wincing at how the wire floor abraded his fragile skin. With awkward maneuvering, she got him into a fireman‘s carry. Skinny, yes, but he weighed a ton as she straightened. Pain stabbed into her knee and her head pounded hard enough to blow her skull apart.

  The kid didn‘t move. Had she killed him? No, as the ringing in her ears died down, she heard him wheeze for air. He sounded like hell.

  But hey, she wouldn‘t want to die in a cage either.

  The stairs were a nightmare, even when she risked an arm to lean on the rail to keep her knee from buckling. 'For someone so skinny, you sure are heavy.'

  'Sorry. And here I‘ve been trying to lose weight for you.'

  She grinned. Wise-ass baby—reminded her of herself, cracking jokes when scared spitless.

  She glanced at the back door, then limped out the front. Her knee wouldn‘t put up with this abuse long.

  The streetlights were coming on, circles of light spilling onto the dark, wet street. The drizzling autumn rain felt wonderful as it washed the sweat from her face. Now what? Steal a car? But there wasn‘t a vehicle on the street in this damned ritzy neighborhood. All locked away in their fancy two-car garages.

  'Time to call the cops,' she said, half to herself.

  Lachlan jerked, almost knocking himself off her shoulders.

  'Don‘t do that!' She rebalanced him, biting down the groan when his hip dug into her ripped-up shoulder.

  'I can‘t go to a hospital,' Lachlan said frantically. 'Not me—I can‘t. I shift if I‘m hurt. I‘m such a loser,' he whispered, the self-disgust pulling sympathy from her. Yeah, she‘d felt that way as a kid, always doing something stupid, like when she used her left hand to pass food to an Iranian minister. Father had turned purple.

  'Please, Vicki. No cops, no doctors.'

  'You‘re awful fussy,' she muttered. She picked a direction and started to walk. Jesus, they were screwed.

  But she was free. And hey, she‘d experienced lots of situations, as Wells liked to call them.

  Trapped in a house about to be blown up, caught snooping by her Iraqi neighbor... 'Hang in there, kid.' Squeezed the emaciated leg hanging over her shoulder.

  Worry bit into her guts as she realized his body had gone truly limp. He needed a hospital and to hell with his shifter paranoia crap. She‘d bust him out later if she had to. She headed straight for the nearest house.

  With no hands free, she kicked the door in lieu of ringing a doorbell. Politeness was overrated anyway.

  An outside light flipped on, and a man‘s face appeared in the small viewing window. 'Who is it?'

  'We were attacked,' she returned. 'Call an ambulance. Fast. This boy needs help.'

  After a long minute, the door swung open. 'I don‘t think a robber would be bleeding so enthusiastically,' the white-haired man said in a dry voice. 'Let‘s get you out of the rain.'

  Legs shaking with exhaustion, she staggered after the man, and the room‘s warmth wrapped around her like a cocoon.

  'Sit down, child.' He waited until Vic dropped onto the sofa, then laid the kid down next to her.

  As he disappeared, Vic slid her legs under Lachlan‘s shoulders so she could hold him. 'Hey, kid.'

  His eyes blinked open, the unfocused gaze slowly clearing. He stared around the living room. 'We got out,' he whispered.

  'Yeah.' Vic couldn‘t manage more; her throat had tightened to the point of choking. Even awake, he looked bad. Really bad. 'We‘re safe here. He‘s a nice old man.'

  'A human? Vicki—promise you won‘t tell him—tell anyone—about me. Or about shifters.

  Ever.' He clutched her hand, the veins in his neck stood out as he tried to sit up.

  'Okay, fine, I promise. No one would believe me anyway.'

  'Thanks. That‘s good. This is good.' His voice was so soft she had to lean down to hear him. 'I really, really wanted to die free—not in a cage.'

  'I‘d rather you lived, damn it,' she gritted out as she brushed the drenched hair out of his face.

  'I wish.' His eyes were very green as he looked up at her. 'My body pretty much shut down yesterday. It‘s a shifter thing; metal‘s bad for us, and that cage...' His mouth twisted in remembered pain.

  'The docs will start IV‘s, give you blood, fluid, food—you‘ll be fine.'

  'No. But it‘s okay. I knew it was gonna happen.' Regret filled his eyes, and he blinked back tears. 'My grandfather—he‘ll be all alone now. He doesn‘t have anybody but me.'

  'Live for him,' she urged. So many people had died in her arms, she couldn‘t face another.

  Not this boy—he wasn‘t old enough to die. Her chest felt raw and open.

  'Not an option.' His lips were blue, the color of death. 'You got nobody either?'

  She shook her head. 'No.' A couple friends on the other side of the planet. And Wells—

  could a spymaster be considered family?

  'Now you will.' He gasped in a breath. 'Go to my grandpa, Vicki. In Cold Creek. Tell him what happened to me. Promise?'

  'Promise. I‘ll bring him to you in the hospital.' Yeah, she‘d find the old man wherever he was. 'But you will be there, you hear me?'

  His forehead wrinkled. 'How does it go?'

  'What?'

  He rubbed the scrapes on his shoulder. His fingers came away blood-streaked. 'Fire in blood.'

  Raising his hand, he wiped his te
ar-streaked cheek. 'Water.'

  'Lachlan?'

  He pursed his lips, puffed on his wet, bloody fingers. 'Air.'

  'What are you doing? Lachlan?' He didn‘t seem to hear her. Delusional? She‘d seen it before with blood loss.

  He touched her filthy face and smiled at the dirt. 'Earth.'

  'Honey, I want you to rest,' she urged. Please don"t do this to me—live! For a second, his face blurred into her teammate, gasping her life away, and Vic‘s arms tightened. Oh, please, not again. 'Just concentrate on breathing and—'

  'And finally my spirit—that‘s the gift. I remembered it,' he told her, pride in his young, young voice. 'C‘mere.' He lifted his arm for a hug. She leaned forward and winced as his dirty fingers dug into her mangled, bleeding shoulder.

  A second later, he slid his arm down for a true hug and pulled her close. 'Tell Grandpa I gifted you...and you‘re my gift,' he breathed in her ear.

  Her arms closed around him. 'Dammit, you‘ll tell him, Lachlan. You‘ll tell him.'

  But only silence answered her.

  Gone. He was gone.

  Vic slumped back on the couch. Her cheeks were wet. Even as she scrubbed her face with her hands, she felt more tears spill from her eyes. What was wrong with her? She never cried.

  People died. All the fucking time. She hadn‘t even known this kid. Tears ran down her cheeks, falling like little explosions of her grief onto Lachlan‘s empty face.

  Footsteps heralded the return of the old man. 'I‘ve got—' The rest of his sentence was cut short by the wailing of multiple sirens, approaching rapidly. 'I‘ll go wave them in.'

  Vic could see the emergency vehicle lights through the thin front window drapes. She slipped out from under Lachlan‘s body, hesitated long enough to touch his cheek in farewell. His skin was already cooling.

  She took a shaky breath and moved away.

  At the window, she pushed open a crack in the drapes. Ambulance in front and a cop car across the street. What would law enforcement do with her story? Uncertainty churned inside her. Were Swane‘s police buddies out there?

  Paramedics jumped out of the ambulance and were met by the old man. Over at the police car, a uniformed cop was talking with someone. The lights, still flashing, illuminated his grim face and that of...Swane. As the kidnapper talked, the cop nodded and turned toward the house, hand on his pistol.

  Oookay. That answered that.

  A minute later, as Vic eased over the back fence, she heard Swane yell, 'Where‘s the girl?'

  The thwarted anger in his voice awarded her a moment of pleasure before she landed painfully on the other side of the fence.

  Chapter Two

  The next afternoon, Vic steered the decrepit Jeep around a curve and entered Cold Creek.

  She sighed wearily. Between the slashes on her back and ribs, the bite on her shoulder, her aching knee, and the various blows she‘d taken from Swane...well, maybe she‘d felt worse the day the house in Baghdad was bombed with her in it, but not by much. God, she hurt.

  She hadn‘t even gotten to beat the hell out of the assholes—that really burned.

  Her head felt hot and gritty, like it was filled with desert sand. She probably should have tried to get more sleep, but Seattle didn‘t feel safe. Not with who-knows-who looking for her.

  Hopefully they‘d stay too busy for a while to focus on her. After her anonymous phone call to the police, the bad guys should be scrambling to cover their tracks. And wasn‘t that hopeful thinking—they‘d probably just abandon the place and the dead woman.

  Oh shit. Was she brain-dead or what? That woman and others had died because Lachlan bit them.

  Lachlan bit me. The good news: with him gone, no more victims would die. At least until they caught another cat-thing.

  Bad news: I might die too. Her chest felt hollow. Dying for something so stupid wasn‘t how she‘d planned to go. If she had to check out, it was supposed to be in a blaze of glory, saving her buddies or a bunch of civilians. Not shivering and puking from being used as a feline chew-toy.

  Go to a hospital? She shook her head. Swane would watch for someone admitted with an animal bite. She might call Wells for help, but he‘d expect the whole story. Yeah, see, I got bitten by some shapeshifter thing? She herself barely believed people could turn into animals, and she‘d seen Lachlan do it. The old man dealt in cold, hard, provable facts. He‘d figure she‘d gone bonkers and put her in a padded cell. So, no hospital.

  The suit had thought the bitees died because they were in poor health to begin with. I"m not weak, not poorly nourished. And fuck this shit, I"m not gonna die.

  She gripped the wheel tighter and concentrated on driving. Already the sun was setting, sending its fading rays across the valley and turning the snow-capped mountains a bloody red.

  The traffic had dissipated after leaving Seattle. Not much going on in Cold Creek, according to the realtor. The town ordinances kept it from growing or even having a McDonald‘s. The realtor had sounded positively disgruntled.

  Vic‘s smile grew as she drove through the downtown, maybe four blocks long with nary a stoplight in sight. Apparently, the residents had spent their money on the trees and plants in the center island and on antique street lights. People were strolling into the stores, sitting on wrought-iron benches in the shade.

  'Toto, I think we‘re back in Kansas,' Vic murmured, unsure if she was pleased or appalled.

  The peacefulness increased when she turned onto a small street with arching maple and spruce trees, brightly colored flower gardens, white picket fences, and wide front porches.

  It was all very civilized until she looked upward to the dense green of an untamed forest.

  One mountain, then more and more, piling up on each other like blocks scattered by a child.

  Made sense that werethingies would hang out close to big forests and mountains, right? The thought sent icy fingers up her spine.

  She pulled her gaze away and concentrated on following the realtor‘s directions. A block from Main Street, the sidewalks disappeared. There— House for Rent, Cold Creek Realty, See Amanda Golden. The sign was stuck next to a distinctive mailbox in the shape of an outhouse.

  Outhouse...she could definitely use one of those. That swing through Starbucks had been a poor tactical decision.

  The rental was a small brown house with white trim and a wide porch. Unlike the other houses on the street, this place boasted no flowers. Instead, short bushes marked the property lines, and a widely branching oak tree dominated the small, well-trimmed lawn. Looked peaceful enough.

  A hotel would have been easier, but who knew how long this might take. She should have asked the kid his last name.

  And she‘d have to be really discreet. Did the bad guys know Lachlan came from Cold Creek? Would the cops be alerted to watch for her? She wouldn‘t survive long if they found her.

  The suit had shown no remorse over what he‘d done to the kid, and Swane had reveled in it.

  She turned off the ancient Jeep—the only decent car in the cheapo car lot—and the engine died with an ominous sputter. A short, limping walk to the house left Vic out of breath, her legs quivering…and fear creeping into her gut. She‘d lost too much blood, taken too much damage.

  Look at the way her hands were shaking. She couldn‘t defend herself against a five-year-old child, let alone someone like Swane.

  Come to think of it, she wouldn‘t know who to defend against. She closed her eyes and shook her aching head. Coming here without knowing the score was like walking blindfolded into a fire zone. Even so, she wasn‘t going to leave. Lachlan had trusted her to tell his grandfather what happened.

  God, she‘d rather face a Bradley tank with a twenty-two pistol than notify someone their kid was dead. Would the old man break down and yell at her like O‘Flannagan‘s parents had? Or be like Shanna‘s. Her best friend‘s mother had deflated as if her soul had shriveled away with Vic‘s words.

  Why did people have to die?

  At
the memory of Lachlan and his courage, his humor, she had to brush the mist from her eyes. Dammit, stop. She could almost hear the drill sergeant‘s cutting voice, “You gonna break down and bawl, Morgan? Pick up your weapon and act like a marine!” She sucked in a breath, and straightened her shoulders.

  On the white-railed porch, she glanced longingly at the cushioned wicker chair before rapping on the door. No response. She frowned at her watch. Five-thirty. Right on time. The blasted realtor better hurry, cuz, God, she really, really had to pee. Scowling, she looked around for a secluded nook that would serve for a latrine. Nothing.

  Trying not to cross her legs, she studied the house. A screenless front window near the end of the porch was half-open—just calling to her. Really.

  She shoved the window open all the way, wishing it was either set lower in the wall or her legs were longer. Dammit, haven"t I done enough calisthenics in the past twenty-four hours?

  Grabbing the window frame with one hand, she jumped up far enough to swing a foot over and grimaced when the movement painfully jostled every fucking owie she had. She tried to pull the other leg over and—dammit—her jeans caught on something sharp. A nail. Stuck. Fucking-A.

  She tugged, feeling the nail dig into her inner thigh.

  Why does this stuff only happen when I need to pee?

  Ignoring the wood pixie chittering angrily in the oak tree, Sheriff Alec McGregor silently stepped onto the porch, coming up behind the burglar. He tried not to laugh as the criminal squirmed like a paw-pinned mouse.

  It‘d been a boring week so far. The last excitement was a good four days ago when old Peterson, having indulged in rotgut tequila, tried to demonstrate how to tap-dance on top of Calum‘s bar...which he did about once a month.

  At least a pinioned burglar had the dubious distinction of being unique.

  He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble. He‘d noticed—being as how he was a guy—

  what was wiggling was a very fine, nicely rounded ass in tight jeans.

  And being a guy, he felt the need to see the front of this dangerous perp who had one leg inside the window and the other outside. He moved silently across the porch and checked out the criminal‘s front side to see what else the evening might hold.