The Wild Rites Saga Omnibus 01 to 04

by Anna McIlwraith

  His eyes actually darkened. He pushed away from the opposing observation window and walked to the table, around it, without looking away from her. “There was something blocking us.” His voice was warm and melodious as it had not been before, and Emma began to realize, too late, that it was anger. “Some presence or effect we could neither discern nor pinpoint. I was too…ill, to come after you, but Robert watched you.” Alan’s voice became more clipped, the words round, louder. “He saw you come and go from that apartment but the diamond was silent, Emma, and when he tailed you and lost you in traffic he could not find you again.” Alan came to a stop mere feet from the observation window that looked in on Emma and, crouched behind her, Katenka. Emma prayed he’d forgotten about the wolf princess, prayed he didn’t know who she was — knew she was praying for a miracle no deity could deliver.

  Alan smoothed the front of his shirt down, muscled pectorals pressing against the pale fabric, and somehow there was violence in the movement. “We searched for weeks. From far away, the diamond sent its signal as before, but when we got close…” He shrugged, shoulder rolling in an action that was more animal than human. “The signal would disappear. Never in the same place. Several of us wandered the mountains of California, trying to triangulate the dead zone, and found ourselves back where we began. Compasses spinning. Caught as dawn rose over those mountains.” He looked to the ceiling, expressionless, and Emma got the feeling he was fighting for control, though not a muscle twitched out of place. He looked at her again. “And then, yesterday morning, the diamond began sending its signal, uninterrupted. Why do you suppose that was, Emma?”

  Emma’s mouth was too dry to speak. Katenka’s hand tightened around her arm, little fingers pinching. She swallowed, tried twice to clear her throat. “I…don’t know.”

  Alan stared at her. So still he looked like he’d stopped breathing. Then Emma blinked and he was right up against the glass and she’d never seen him move. Her heart lost its rhythm and pounded against her chest like a terrified bird.

  He pressed both hands to the glass; it gave a little. “What is that mark on your hand, Emma?”

  She wished he’d stop saying her name like that, like it made her his, like every time he said it he touched her. She clenched her right fist. “It’s nothing.” He almost laughed at that; a breath huffed out of his nostrils and misted against the glass. “If it was a spell,” she said fast, “Something to counteract the diamond’s magic, the diamond would never have told you where I was.”

  He cocked his head. Emma felt like she was watching a caged animal, only she was the one in the cage. Then he moved away, turned his back and pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sat without another glance in Emma’s direction. “Gordon, I want you to do something for me.”

  The men in the third room stirred and one came forward, disappeared behind the door. The door slid open and he walked in, muscles straining against the black fabric of his combat jumpsuit, dark hair, dark eyes in a young, tanned face. “Da. ”

  Alan rolled his sleeves back. “She has not been as helpful as I would like. Punish her.”

  Katenka let out a wet, rolling snarl that vibrated against Emma’s back. Emma’s legs went weak and then adrenalin kicked her in the ribs, brought her breath faster, made the blood roar in her ears. Oh, sweet mother of —

  “Do not break anything,” said Alan, “Do not bleed her out, do not kill her, do not feed from her vein. I trust you to interpret that how you wish.” Alan drew a small white remote from the pocket of his slacks and held it up, waiting.

  Gordon turned toward the glass and smiled. Wide and joyous, like it was Christmas morning and he’d just gotten everything he wanted. He stalked over to the door and for a horrible moment was gone.

  The door hissed as it opened. Emma grabbed Katenka and shoved her in the corner at the head of the cot. The princess strained at her and her snarl turned to a living, breathing thing — like she was trying to talk through it, like she was trying to talk with it. Emma had never heard a sound that promised more violence, unadulterated by arrogance or desire or uncertainty.

  “Katenka you have to stop, your father will never forgive me if something happens to you, Katenka please —”

  No more time. The door slid shut behind Gordon.

  His smile was still in place.

  He spread his arms, as though Emma would run to him, as though he’d catch her — as though there was somewhere to run. “He didn’t say I couldn’t fuck you.”

  Out of the corner of her eye Emma saw Alan stand. She put her left hand on the wall and braced. She had one shot at this — her mind emptied, too much fear and nothing to do with it, it simply folded away. She watched for the tell, the movement that would betray him, just like Anton taught her — and when his left thigh twitched she didn’t wait to see if he was as fast as Alan, she just pushed off the wall and ran.

  They clashed halfway. Her right fist hit him below the sternum. He crumpled around her and drove her to the floor with his weight, sagging, she scrambled out from beneath him but a hand closed around her ankle and flipped her onto her back. She stared into Gordon’s face; blood dribbled from his nostrils, his lips, his eyes were bloodshot and black as pits. He opened his mouth and snarled at her — and his lips folded back from thick, white fangs.

  Shit. The mark could help her call and control the essence of a shapechanger, but what the hell would it do to vampires?

  She was about to find out. Gordon lunged forward and Emma threw her hand up, palm out, in his face and he stopped as though about to drop into a push-up above her, breath hot against her fingers.

  He made a horrible noise — like a growl caught between a sigh and a laugh and a death rattle. “You can’t punch me to death, little girl, no matter how good that thing is.” He squirmed against her, mashing his crotch on her leg, erection so hard it bruised. Toying with her.

  “Perhaps not,” she said, taking a deep breath, knowing it pushed her breasts against the fabric of her sweater. His eyes dropped. She wriggled, pretending to try to get away from him, and he made an eager sound. There was no way she was talking him out of this, mark or no — the shapechangers might be beasts, but they were beasts you could reason with. Gordon was something else.

  She moved fast, faster than she knew she could: she grabbed his throat and hung on, fingers digging. Gordon hissed and reared back and she came with him. His fists closed around her wrist and pulled. and she visualized closing her fist completely, the mark burning and jumping against her hand, against his throat, like it was melting — and then her fingers punched through his skin. Small fingernails sheared muscle, wedged between tendons. Emma felt the tip of her thumb brush her index finger, like squashing a handful of tough ground beef and watched blood well and then pour out around her fingers, fragrant and bright.

  Gordon thrashed. Emma hung on and tipped her head to the side and gagged, but her stomach was empty from six hours on the road and at least two doses of tranquilizer. With a sobbing scream she jerked her arm back, felt something awful give in Gordon’s throat before she finally let go and scooted backwards, fighting the urge to close her eyes — she had to look, face what she’d done.

  What she’d done was carnage. His throat flapped loose, a fat red mess; he caught himself with one hand, legs sliding against the bloodied floor, eyes blind and crimson.

  “Everybody,” came Alan’s voice, calm and shocking. “In there. Seize her.” A pause. “Now .”

  Emma couldn’t make herself move. They rushed in, two black-clad men and the blond woman in the lab coat, and picked her up — the men had her right arm, the woman took the rest of her body.

  Katenka sprang. She landed on the back of one of the men and sank her little teeth into his throat, growling, clinging like a monkey — Alan strode into the holding cell and plucked her off. With one hand around both her wrists and the other gripping one leg, he carried her out of the room and made it look effortless. Some part of Emma died a little to see the princes
s thrashing so wildly, giving it everything — even though after a minute she sagged, breathing hard, hanging like a ragdoll at Alan’s side.

  Emma struggled but it was pointless, and besides, could she make herself do that again without a spectacular reason? Rip out a man’s throat?

  She had a horrible feeling she’d find out again, all too soon.

  They threw her down on the table and pinned her there, one man to each side, the woman holding her feet. The mark on her hand sizzled and spasmed, but it was useless — the power wasn’t in her arm, or her wrist, but the hand itself. Unless she could somehow use the magic of the mark to charm all these vampires into submission — but all she could do was make them afraid, and unlike animals, the vampires didn’t respond the same way. They didn’t think, pause, they just reacted. And their reaction to threat was violence.

  At least Gordon had been like that. Was he dead?

  The man holding her right wrist responded to some unspoken command from Alan and all thoughts of Gordon fled: her hand was flipped over, wrist pressed into the table hard enough to make the tips of her fingers throb. She craned her head back and looked Alan in the face.

  He peered down at her with no expression, but when he cocked his head, it made him look like he was pondering something curious and wonderful — maybe it was just the light in his pale brown eyes. “I only meant for you to give a small demonstration of your power, Emma. I’m afraid I allowed Gordon to scare you too badly, and for that, I apologize. But something must be done about this mark, all the same.”

  Emma’s guts went cold. She sucked in a breath that seemed to burn with freezing fire, but it was just panic and terror constricting her windpipe.

  Katenka screamed wordlessly. Alan lifted the gun into Emma’s line of sight. Placed the black, black nose of it above Emma’s convulsing hand.

  She was already fainting when he pulled the trigger and the world exploded.

  She dreamed she was walking cold stone passageways that echoed with the memory of music, drums a subliminal throb beneath her bare feet, as she called Telly’s name.

  So damn cold. There was fire somewhere at the end of the passage, she knew it, but some instinct older than conscious thought told her she would never get there — just as Telly would never come. She stumbled, felt the fabric of the world shred, heard a voice that smelled like fur and clutched at her with small cool hands —

  For the second time, she woke with the bitter taste of medicine on the back of her tongue. Awareness seemed to fill her as though she was a cup; first the awful taste in her mouth, next the feel of the mattress beneath her back, finally the thick, warm throb at the end of her right arm. Fear and hopeless triumph curdled behind her breastbone — if anything could call Telly back to her, the violation of the mark on her hand had to be it. Maybe…

  “Emma, wake up. Please.” Katenka’s voice, low and urgent. Emma opened her eyes. Back in the holding cell.

  Katenka’s elfin face peered down at her, deep lines of stress either side of her mouth, eyes bruised and hollow.

  Emma tried not to think about her hand — she had a horrible feeling if she did that, it would start hurting. It rested on her stomach but she couldn’t see it, Katenka was in the way.

  Emma reached up with her left hand and brushed a tangle of silky white hair from the girl’s forehead. “You okay?”

  Katenka’s eyes widened. “They shot your hand. You ask me if I’m okay.” Her eyes were glassy, and her weight where she leaned over Emma was leaden.

  “Don’t forget almost raped, then shot,” Emma said and wished she hadn’t. Katenka’s eyes threatened to swallow the rest of her face. “Gonna need to roll you over.” Emma groaned. “I have to pee.” She edged her left elbow up and rolled onto it, scooting away at the same time, so Katenka was cushioned by the bed. “Don’t,” she said when Katenka moved to help her. “I can do it on my own.” She wasn’t actually sure of that — how she was supposed to get her jeans down, she had no clue. Her hand was a big, bandaged lump with fingers and thumb poking out like little stranded pink nubs, and her palm throbbed sickly, with just the beginnings of a sharp, nasty burning sensation. She didn’t want to think about what it would feel like when the painkillers wore off.

  Using the toilet wasn’t as impossible as she expected. It was getting her jeans back up that posed the most difficulty, and the frosted fake glass privacy pane wasn’t as frosted as she would have liked, but she was desperate enough that it didn’t bother her as much as it should — besides, it was classic prisoner intimidation technique. Debase your captives, take away their basic dignities, put them in a white featureless room with no personality and hope they devolve.

  She came out from behind the privacy screen and might have wet herself if she hadn’t just emptied her bladder, because Alan was outside the observation window.

  The smell of food filled the room. Someone had placed a tray just inside the door: steaming soup, sandwiches, bottled water. Emma was betting it hadn’t been Alan who risked his neck delivering the food.

  Katenka crouched on the cot, pressed into the wall, wide eyes on Alan, but Emma could see her limbs tremble with the effort of not falling on the food. Emma went over to the tray and picked it up, sort of scooping one side of it up with the inside of her right forearm and grasping, steadying, with the left. “Is this safe to eat?”

  Alan blinked, eyes narrowed, the color of sandstone. “If I wanted to drug you, I could send gas in through the vents.”

  Emma held his gaze. “Or, you could put it in our food. What’s your point?”

  He almost frowned. “What is yours, asking me then?”

  “Never mind. Katenka, can you tell if something’s bad to eat?”

  The girl turned haunted eyes to Emma. “Do you mean, like broccoli, or like poison?”

  Stifling a grin, Emma brought the food to the cot and set it down. She perched on the end of the mattress. “Like poison.”

  Katenka’s nostrils flared. “Touch my hand,” she whispered. Frowning, Emma did, and felt a cool tickle of power against her fingertips. She tasted cherries for a second, closing her eyes — and when she opened them, Katenka’s lips were tinged faint cherry red, her eyes were like deep forest pools, and something lean and sinuous moved beneath the humanity of her face. Something wild.

  Katenka took a deep breath, nostrils quivering. Then she pulled away and the beast emptied out of her face, left it smooth and young and innocent once more. She looked up at Emma with pale green eyes. “Food’s good. Let’s eat.”

  Alan clapped. “Quite a trick, caller of the blood. But it seems even your power is not enough to save her — I would have thought the little princess would change completely, what we’ve put her through, but she can’t. Can she?”

  Of course he knew all about Katenka. Emma straightened, pushed the food at the princess. “You have it. I’m not hungry.” She started to protest and Emma glared at her. “Don’t argue with me.”

  She stood and cradled her right arm with her left, pinning Alan with a stare that felt flat and empty. “Katenka does well enough. She’s healthier than she looks.” If Alan knew what could happen to Katenka if he separated them…

  Maybe he already knew. Or suspected.

  His pale brown gaze flicked to Katenka. The princess was putting away ham sandwiches like nobody’s business, a dark look in her eyes as she chewed with determination, glaring at Alan. In spite of her protests, the girl was smart; Emma had told her to eat it all, and they both knew Katenka needed the strength.

  Emma didn’t like the way he looked at Katenka. Hell, she didn’t like the way he looked at her, either. He’d shot her. No emotion, nothing, just expediency. If she needed reminding, she only had to stop ignoring the strengthening pulse of heat radiating from her right palm — or glance at the table behind Alan, its white surface stained faint pink around an uneven hole.

  She realized he’d thrown away a major advantage: she now knew without a doubt that he was not the man she’d dated fo
r almost three months. That man had never existed. The one facing her through the glass observation window now, she’d met at Seshua’s roadhouse sanctuary four months ago, when he tried to force his will on hers, control her mind, and steal her away from — from what?

  From a life she had come to appreciate. It was hard and tough and not what she’d had in mind, not even close, but like Fern said, it was also wondrous. There was love in it. There was no love in Alan’s gaze, and she’d known him longer than everyone save for Ricky. But he would try to make her believe otherwise, if only so she’d hesitate if given the opportunity to fight back.

  “The look on your face, Emma.” Alan shook his head, leaned against the frame of the observation window. “This is going to be harder than I anticipated.”

  “What is?” She took a step toward the glass. “Why am I here? What do you want with me?”

  His eyebrows lifted appreciatively. “You’ll see. No need to alarm you now. I’ll have more food sent in, you need the strength too.” He turned to go, and Emma thought about letting him — he was manipulating her. Withholding information, teasing her with a backhanded threat, countering it with an offering of superficial compassion and leaving to let her hang. She guessed it didn’t get much more complicated than that, even if you were hundreds of years old, or thousands, or whatever ridiculous number he could attest to.

  “Wait,” she said. He turned. She searched for the glimmer of triumph in his eyes, but they were just eyes — disquieting and blank. “Why are you stalling? Why won’t you tell me why you brought me here now? ”

  He smiled, slow and breathtakingly handsome. “Because I need to find out if you have any more tricks up your sleeve. You did something to my men at the wolf king’s estate, more than what you did to Gordon. I don’t know what it was — the lieutenant who survived and tranquilized you is of no use, either. But I would not risk that happening again.”

  Not to yourself, anyway, Emma thought. And what happened when Alan knew she didn’t have any more tricks up her sleeve?