He tried to focus on her. It wasn’t difficult. She’d taken off her cap. To his surprise her black mane fell into a straight blunt cut that swung down neatly at her shoulders. When their eyes locked, he hadn’t been hallucinating. Violet eyes speared his. He knew now there were no contacts, just striking, purplish-blue orbs.
Before she started applying the butterflies to stitch him up, she had to know, “Last chance, Ander, to head to the ER, let a pro handle this.”
He shook his head. For some reason he had confidence in her.
“I’m going to use peroxide now to disinfect because it isn’t that deep, not seeing layers and layers of tissue damage here which means you’re lucky. No muscle injury, either. Looks like it didn’t tear up too much cartilage at the joint. Didn’t reach the bone.”
She measured the gap, decided she could work with what she had. “I should be able to close using the butterflies. That’s good. You’ve lost some blood. It’ll probably make you weak for the next couple of days. And you’re gonna want to get a tetanus shot, especially if it’s been longer than five years. If I were you I’d call your doctor first thing in the morning and get him to prescribe some antibiotics.”
She glanced up at the sound of Josh snoring softly. She merely shook her head and for the first time since she’d met the guy—laughed out loud. “Well, you’re a mellow drunk, aren’t you, Josh Ander? You’re gonna be sore in the morning though.”
After getting the bleeding to stop, she secured the butterflies in place. She finished wrapping his shoulder, taped the gauze together. She hoped he was right-handed because it would take a couple of days before he’d feel like using his left arm again.
She cleaned up the mess, gathered up the supplies and carried them back to the bathroom where she’d found them. She even took the glass, bowl and tray back into the kitchen, washed everything out in the sink.
Twenty minutes later, she exited the building, stepping into the frigid night air. It had momentarily stopped drizzling for the first time all day.
She pulled gloves from her pocket, tugged them on before glancing down to check the time on her watch. Two-fifty. Not even three yet, early for her. She’d cut short her night to come to the aid of the wealthy boozehound. After the hours she’d wasted saving Josh Ander tonight the trail of the man she hunted went cold. She cursed softly under her breath. Okay, so it had been awhile since she’d seen a man so in need of getting out of a jam. She supposed it wasn’t his fault he’d chosen that alley to…what...get some fresh air to sober up? Why had the guy been out there in the dark without his buddies in the first place? she wondered. After all, didn’t Friday night happy hour go hand-in-hand with friends? She sniffed the damp air, grateful Josh Ander was no longer her problem.
And just like that, she turned her attention back to the task at hand. She’d been so sure she had spotted him near Gull’s Pub. But she’d been sure before only to be disappointed—and wrong. How many times was that now? How did the man always manage to dodge and evade her?
“I hope to hell your life was worth the one that may have been lost tonight, Ander. I hope to hell you were worth it,” she muttered as she struck out for home on foot.
Without a sound she strode past the long string of parked cars lining the curbs. Several alleyways later, a dog started barking at the stray cat that sat taunting him on top of a fence post, knowing perfectly well it was safe from the canine that yapped below it. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as a homeless person went through the garbage bin behind the Chinese restaurant east of Olive Way, foraging through the contents for something to satisfy his empty belly.
As her senses filled with the familiar sounds of the night, the blue fog rose and began to edge up out of the ground, thick as smoke. She’d gone no more than two hundred feet or so when that same mist took shape and began to swirl bluer, thicker around her. While the haze encircled her like a warm embrace, she felt the energy flow through her veins. The eyes came first, a wolf’s eyes, a deep violet like her own, glaring out from the gray plume. They sought hers through the vapor and locked.
Skye never got tired of watching it happen even if her sanity sometimes battled with the mystic side of her forefathers. She had long ago accepted the reality of Kiya, her wolf, her spirit guide as much a part of herself as the color of her own hair and eyes. If she hadn’t she no doubt would’ve ended up in a padded room somewhere, locked away from the general public.
Silver and sleek, once the wolf’s majestic body shivered into its finished shape, Kiya raised her regal head to sample the heavy air. The wolf flicked her ears back in recognition. It was that simple gesture that offered Skye the comfort she needed, the drive, the light. Despite the lateness of the hour, the presence of the wolf gave Skye that boost of inner strength. The piercing gaze had a calming effect. Her frustration at the way the evening had ended, fell away. Her black mood lifted.
The silver wolf matched her step for step as they walked together in the gloom, the wolf ever vigilant, ever watchful, ever protective. Without Kiya to guide her, Skye doubted she’d have made it this far. Without Kiya’s knowledge, her essence, her presence, Skye Cree’s life would have turned out far different, if she had lived at all. No doubt she would’ve died thirteen years earlier at the hands of a predatory monster.
Kiya’s spirit had saved her.
All this time the wolf had always been there when Skye needed her the most. Unlike those who had purposely turned away from her, Kiya had not.
Maybe because after so many years there were still lessons yet to learn, doubts to deal with, demons of the human variety to take down.
For that reason the funk tried to slap back at her. But Kiya’s voice inside her head came through strong and clear and snapped Skye back from the nagging hopeless feeling.
Remember, Skye Cree, the hunt isn’t always successful. There will be another night, another hunt, you must never give up. The wolf is a patient hunter. Your path in life was set long before you were ever born. Find those that need you. They cry out in fear and pain. They are bound, kept hidden, locked away. Seek them. Set them free, Skye Cree.
The bastard was out there somewhere, snatching the innocent. Skye knew it, she just had to find some way to prove it. And she would. But now the trail had gone cold―again. If anyone knew firsthand what the man was capable of doing to a young victim, it was Skye Cree.
Cold now, Skye pulled the collar up on her long black coat while Kiya, the wolf, the hunter, her mother spirit, the one she’d counted on for years, steered her homeward. Together they headed farther west toward the harbor in the dark mist of predawn.
If she intended to find the bastard, she needed to catch some Zs to be ready for what she had to do tomorrow.
Because sadly for Skye, the quest was never really over, not as long as there were sex offenders walking the streets that made it their life’s work to prey on little kids.
CHAPTER THREE
Erin Prescott couldn’t stop crying. Her stomach hurt. In fact everything hurt, even her hair. He’d jerked her hair even though now the man lay next to her with his big hands stroking her mane of red locks. He seemed fascinated with her hair. She knew he was talking to her because she heard his voice, his words, but she couldn’t distinguish them into anything coherent.
She didn’t want to listen to anything he had to say anyway. But having to be this close to him on the bed, she had no choice.
She’d bled when he’d pushed himself inside her. And the second time had hurt just as badly as the first. Erin couldn’t help it, her thoughts flew to Jason Avery. What would he think of her now, here in this bed with this creepy man with the greasy blond hair?
Would Jason ever again ask her to go with him to the mall?
Erin cried softly as the man turned her over to face him. If he started kissing her again she was sure she’d vomit. As the bile rose up in her throat, she shook her head and started trying to get up off the bed. When he protested, she screamed, “I’m going to barf. I
need the bathroom or I’m going to throw up all over you!”
He relinquished her allowing her to move unfettered into the restroom, an extension of what looked like it had once been some corporate executive’s office. The bathroom had no tub, just an enclosed shower stall along with a toilet and sink. All of which hadn’t seen a good scrubbing in a decade or more. Even though she made a mad dash, her captor was right on her heels. When she tried to shut the door in his face, he yelled at her. “No, you don’t. Leave the door open, so I can watch you.”
But there was no place for Erin to go. She had to find a way out of this place. As she lost the contents of her stomach in the toilet again, she slunk down to the battered linoleum.
Erin eyed her abductor, still terrified of what he might do, and noted he’d momentarily stepped away from the door. She looked around for a way out. When her eyes landed on the window about six feet off the floor, she made herself get up and go over to the glass. It was dirty like everything else in the place. Not an hour earlier, she’d seen a rat scurrying into a hole in the woodwork. But oh, how she wished that rat could somehow lead her out of there.
With one hand she tried to wipe off some of the grime but even standing on tiptoes she couldn’t peer out into darkness. She’d never felt so alone and lost in the whole of her fifteen years. Why? Why had she ditched practice to meet Jason? And why hadn’t Jason offered to drive her to the mall with him? Stupid. She’d been incredibly stupid.
When she heard a noise in the other room, she turned back to make certain he wasn’t watching her. As her hands shook, she stood on tiptoes again and with everything she had left inside, she did her best to lift up the glass, one inch, then two. Even if it was just a crack, the wintry night air drifted inside. She could smell the fishy smells from the harbor. She leaned her head on the wall, held her stomach, and dissolved into tears again. Please. Please someone come for me. I have to get out of here. Please don’t leave me here. Help me find a way out.
Skye accepted the images and the sounds for what they were. The dreams always came strong and fast. To Skye they were almost as much the enemy as the despicable men who hunted children. She’d been a child the last time she’d slept without dreams and the voices that haunted her. Awake now after only a scant three hours sleep, Skye rolled over and knew it would be another gray and dreary morning before she even lifted her head from the pillow.
There were nights she didn’t sleep that much and still dreams had a tendency to dominate her waking moments, especially when a child called out to her for help. There had been a time when she’d once tried to shut them all out, close herself off to the message of each one. But most nights that was damned near impossible. So over the years she’d learned to use what she could, to gain insight into how she might be able to help those she saw and heard—and find them.
Tonight she thought she could make out the girl’s face, certainly her voice, even though she had no idea the girl’s name. Wherever she was, she hadn’t been there for very long. She hadn’t been a captive for more than a couple of days, maybe even less than twenty-four. The girl’s speech, the tone of her voice, told Skye a lot.
That voice might’ve held terror as it quivered and pitched but it had also held hope, hope that someone might come and save her.
The hope is what drove Skye Cree.
There was never any doubt in Skye’s mind that the girl wanted her to hear—needed to make sure someone heard—and did something. There were parents out there frantic with worry who could do nothing but rely on law enforcement to bring their child back to them, safe and sound.
The girl was out there, locked up, held against her will, sick, scared, hurting. And no one knew better than Skye Cree the thoughts that had to be running through her head. That familiar mindset of wanting to run, to get away, to have someone, anyone, walk through the door and set them free, rescue them from their bonds. Perhaps that was the link, what the wolf spirit picked up on, what the heart of the hunter connected to.
How could she get any sleep now with the image of the girl in her head, with the heaviness weighing on her heart?
Skye crawled out of bed, threw on a robe, and went to the window. Drawing back the vertical blinds so she could peer out, she stared beyond her little balcony and out into the city not yet fully awake below with all its warts and meanness.
Because monsters were real—they might not have horns and red eyes or fangs or razor-sharp teeth—but they didn’t need demon-like qualities to be able to inflict heartache and pain, injury or death. They were out there and Skye intended to put an end to those she could get her hands on.
It had been that way for years.
But first she had to get to the girl, the girl with the red hair, the one who had pounded on her door figuratively, at such an early hour, albeit in her mind, to get her attention. The girl had accomplished that much, Skye thought as she leaned her face against the cold glass, watched her breath fog the pane. There was a time to sleep and a time to act. The girl needed help. There were so many out there that did, too many to count, too many for one person to find alone. But alone is what she had been for too many years. And alone is all she knew. Tonight wasn’t about her anyway. It was about the girl with the red hair, the one that had reached out and begged for help.
Skye went to her laptop and booted up her computer. The girl didn’t just need action, she needed a miracle. And for anyone else a miracle might be hard to come by.
Lucky for the little redhead, Skye Cree knew something about making the impossible happen.
CHAPTER FOUR
Josh came awake in the same chair where he’d fallen asleep. Even without his wire-rims he could make out the soft morning light drifting through the window. He could tell it was still overcast and drizzling. He patted his pocket, then looked around for his glasses and found them on the table next to the chair. He didn’t remember taking them off and wondered briefly if his avenging angel had done so for him.
He’d slept like the dead except for the images he’d had of a certain scantily clad raven-haired goddess warrior with violet eyes flitting through his head in his dreams. The scantily clad part had been his own making, his personal touch enhancing the imagery. After all, his gaming background required a more detailed fantasy. Besides, it was his dream, wasn’t it?
Just when he began to think last night had never happened, he started to rise and felt the sharp slap of pain in his left shoulder. Not only that, his head rumbled with a hangover the size of Mount St. Helens.
Slowly he eased out of the chair. There was no sign of the first aid kit, or his bloody shirt from the night before.
And no sign of said warrior goddess.
He went to the hall bathroom in search of aspirin for his pounding brain and found the remnants of his tan Polo scrubbed out like a rag still holding on to a reddish stain and tossed over the side of the tub to dry. She’d put away the first aid kit along with all the other supplies. To satisfy his curiosity that she was really gone, he did a quick walk-through of his bedroom, the guest room, and then headed to the kitchen.
When he didn’t find her there, disappointment gave way to resentment. Using his good hand, he got out coffee beans and dumped them into the grinder.
As he ran water for the carafe, he wondered what the hell was wrong with him. And what had he expected anyway? That a woman like that would stick around waiting for a drunk to wake up from his stupor?
Maybe in the movies things like that were customarily written into cleverly crafted scripts but in real life, they just didn’t happen.
While he waited for the coffee to finish he thought back to what he knew about his revenging savior.
Other than the fact she had the most incredible eyes he’d ever seen, she had to be a professionally trained martial arts expert. He’d never seen anyone fight like that least of all a woman. And that he decided he would keep to himself since he was pretty sure she would take offense at his phrasing, might even find it sexist.
At the
moment, he didn’t care.
Last night in the alley it hadn’t been a smoothly choreographed movie set but a real life event. He’d seen her take on four tough guys, single-handedly, and come out on top. That didn’t happen every day. But she certainly seemed comfortable in the role.
Maybe she’d been a cop. He hadn’t thought of that. But she hadn’t identified herself as one. The way she fought made her an expert in…what? A black belt? Karate? Kickboxing? Aikido? Taekwondo? Jiujitsu? Wing chun? Was there a difference?
As a self-described geek, Josh didn’t know squat about self-defense except what he’d seen and learned from the movies and had translated some of the moves into graphics for his games, specifically those from Bruce Lee movies. After pouring a mug full of coffee, he sweetened it with enough sugar for two people and went to boot up his laptop.
He decided to Google martial arts to find out what he needed to know.
After thirty minutes he’d ruled out aikido because it taught that the safety of the attacker comes first. During the rounds last night Skye hadn’t seemed overly concerned with the bad guys getting the worst of the deal or taking their well-earned lumps.
He considered karate, discovered it was Japanese while taekwondo originated in Korea. Watching a video from YouTube convinced him the two were similar yet the knowledge didn’t bring him any closer to learning Skye’s specific training.
Nothing stood out about which particular skill she’d used since she could’ve practiced a combo of all of them, especially kickboxing. Whatever it had been it sure as hell had gotten the job done.
Josh’s shoulder still throbbed like it was on fire. Because of that he got up to dig around in several drawers and kitchen cabinets looking for a bottle of tramadol left over from his last root canal. When he found the bottle, he uncapped it, swallowed two pills with a glass of water and went back to his laptop.
The Bones of Others Page 4
