Ruled

by Keira Blackwood

  “Come.” The voice was deep, his accent heavy. The woman giggled, wobbly footsteps following just behind his heavy, steady set.

  As the minutes passed, I waited silently behind the door.

  “Where is it?” Girardo growled.

  “Let’s go in,” the woman said. “I’m ready. I want you n-”

  “My keycard,” he said. “It’s fucking missing.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “Let’s go to my room.”

  “I’ll have to go to the desk-”

  “Please,” she begged. “I’ve waited too long already.”

  Again the rustle of fabric. The slobbery smacking of lips. The wheels of the cart and footfalls of the bellhop sped past.

  “Yeah,” The Weasel said, voice rough as gravel.

  Moments later, the elevator dinged once again. And they were gone.

  I moved. My window of opportunity was limited. Salvatore Girardo was likely a ten minute ride at best. When he was done he’d be back.

  I glided through the hall as if I belonged there, past the cleaning lady. Six fifty-three. I used the keycard and stepped inside. The suite was covered in shades of cream, from honey-hued hardwood to the white chaise lounge. Even the bricks around the fireplace were marbled white and sand. There was an ivory grand piano, and dozens of white roses. The only vibrant color to be seen was beyond the hotel walls, though through the dark, night sky, the beauty was diminished. Dark waves rippled just beyond the open glass doors to the balcony. The same view in daylight was cerulean and azure. The decor was what I had expected. As was the location of the safe—just behind the ornate mirror next to the bed.

  One of the benefits of being a shifter was the enhanced hearing. I’d never met another thief who could hear the subtle clicks of the combination lock as it turned without using a tool kit. For me it was easy. I was born for this. The lock clicked in place, popping the safe door open. Inside was a stack of cash, and more importantly, the Vandervelt broach I’d hoped for. That one little piece would not only feed me at the finest restaurants for the next five years, but afford my entire lifestyle and whims. The rumors were true. It was here, cold and heavy in my palm.

  The thrill of success clouded my brain. But not enough to overpower their scent. Wolves. Why did it have to be wolves?

  Before I could react, a sharp, stabbing pain pierced the back of my neck. I turned, ready to fight, ready to run. But the world spun. The room swirled in a foggy… unfocused…

  Shoes, black dress shoes. Salvatore ‘The Weasel’ Girardo stood over me. The woman beside him looked terrified, her lip bloody, her wrists tied. Suit-wearing goons filed in around The Weasel. Blackness shrunk my field of vision. Twinkling away. Something else, a feeling to replace everything else. Dread. Nothingness.

  Misdelivered: Chapter Two

  Lyn

  As soon as it began, I knew it was a dream. It was the same nightmare that had tormented me countless times before. But knowing didn’t make it stop.

  Standing on the steps of Hell’s gates, I stared up at the horrific black-brick façade. Behind every window was darkness, a blackhole that devoured life as much as light. It was the kind of residence only a monster could stand. The building stretched toward the sky, though somehow seemed to lean forward as we approached the door as if the house itself willed not only to crush my spirit, but my bones as well. Horrific gargoyles slipped down the stonework, claws and teeth marked for my flesh. But that wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t. It was just a house, of grey stone. Still, my eyes deceived me. And the fear was real.

  “Maybe thirteen’s the charm,” the social worker said, with a quick glance down at me. An attempt at kindness, maybe. That, or a cruel joke. Thirteen foster homes in my thirteen years, and I hadn’t started until I was four.

  The nun’s bun was as tight as her lips, her glasses as sharp as her shoulders. She kept her distance from me, as if I were diseased.

  A quick pound of her closed fist on the door, and she stared straight ahead, a statue with hands clasped to the file that held my past, my present, and my fate.

  I bit my lip, clenched my sweaty palms, and shifted my weight between the balls of my feet. I prayed for kindness, acceptance. I prayed for real parents. In the pit of my stomach, I knew it would never be.

  An eternity passed before the black door creaked open. Tendrils of ebony smog slithered out from Hell’s depths. A familiar aroma carried out from the woman inside—her scent was shifter. Until that moment, I’d found the presence of another shifter a comfort, a remembrance of home and family. All of that changed with her. Thick fingers crushed my upper arm, and ripped me from the world that was.

  A creature of the night, shrouded in darkness, dragged me to the small prison I’d have to fight to escape. Struggling was no use. This was my reality. Hell was the locked closet.

  It didn’t happen like that. Not really. I knew it didn’t. There was no monster. But the closet—the closet was real.

  My heart thundered in my chest; and my eyes shot open. Everything was dark. The world was dark—just like always. Instinct told me to run. Hit the sadistic woman as soon as she opened the door. Run and never look back.

  As my eyes adjusted, reality sunk in. This was not the closet. That was then. This was now. Still, my pulse thrummed, adrenaline pumping. I was in a wooden cage, maybe even a cheap casket. Great. One minute I had a priceless relic in my palms, the next I was headed for a pyre. Fitting for my luck? Maybe.

  No. Unfortunately confined—that was all that I was. No amount of security could keep me out. No restraints could keep me in. I was stronger than this.

  With a deep breath, I told myself to be calm and take control. I would not accept a death sentence. I would not allow another to control my fate.

  Willing my arms forward, I attempted to shove the wooden wall before me. My arms didn’t move. Instead, they hung limp—not a good sign. What was happening to me?

  I seemed to have control of my eyes, the opening and shutting, the ability to look from side to side, but nothing more. My arms and legs felt heavy. Not even my finger moved when I wanted it to. My stomach twisted and my pulse thrummed in my head. I’d been drugged.

  The wooden crate was casket-sized, just long and wide enough to fit a semi-conscious woman and some sort of gaudy white dress. Had I not woken to find myself encased in tulle and topped with shoulder pads, I’d have thought everything that had happened at the hotel was part of my nightmare. Too bad it wasn’t. If I had to guess, I’d say I’d been dressed like bride Barbie from the eighties. As the truth of my situation settled, images clouded my head. How exactly had I gotten in here? Who touched me long enough to put this hideous thing on? I pictured Girardo’s greasy palms and sausage fingers working the zipper of my—and the urge to vomit overwhelmed me.

  I had to focus on anything but that. The dress screamed bride. That meant sold. Bastard probably traded me like a piece of meat, as some blackmarket mail-order bride. That or he was planning something worse. Sold was better than Salvatore Girardo. Sold was better than dead. And wherever he sent me, I’d find my way out. Escape had always been my specialty. Well, until I got caught.

  Details. My ears worked. My nose worked. My eyes worked. Attention to the details of my situation would give me power. Knowledge is always power.

  The gentle rocking motion of the floor told me that we were in transit. Scents beyond the box suggested metal, and salt water. I had to be on a large boat. There were creaking mechanical sounds, but beyond that I heard nothing. My ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. Glimmers of fluorescent light slipped through the splintered slats of my box, suggesting I was in a cabin, and that someone had to be out there. It wasn’t like they’d leave the light on for me.

  Two options were available—scream and hope the boat worker was sympathetic, or wait it out until we arrived wherever the hell they were taking me. With any luck it was a tropical island, though I wasn’t sure I had any luck left. Option one required actual control over the mus
cles in my mouth, which I was unsure I could manage. Plus, it seemed unlikely The Weasel would be dumb enough to put me in a box surrounded by honest people that would be willing to help. Without the ability to walk, it wasn’t like I could run for, or swim for freedom. That was if I could convince someone to open the crate. Too many ifs. Chances were, I wasn’t the first to be shipped out to some pervert who buys women. And chances were, the Sanguine Syndicate was smart enough to hire dirtbags who practiced discretion.

  Option two, sitting tight, meant the men who delivered me would leave. Odds were I’d be one-on-one with some old, rich guy who I could slip away from. Much easier. Or, if the guy I was delivered to had a bunch of hired goons, at least I’d be off of the boat. There had to be places to run. More, at least, than places I could swim if I dove from the boat.

  My finger wiggled. Progress. I could do this. I would escape.

  As I willed my body to move, and waited for it to respond, I contemplated the possible scenarios ahead, like what I’d do to pay back Girardo if he was there when my box was opened. That brought a smile to my face, proving that I was regaining control of my body. And the situation.

  Two things were set in stone. One, I had to bide my time. Two, hell would freeze over before I became someone’s belonging. Let alone his bride.

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  Grizzly Bait: Chapter One

  Emma

  Peanuts, liquor, and sweat—Finnley’s Bar always smelled the same. Like all of the buildings on the riverfront, Finnley’s maintained its classic stone wall construction that dated back to when the town was first built. The lighting was poor, and the floors were sticky, but it was the only place in town to sit down after work for a cold beer. With all of the changes happening, I doubted a newer, cleaner establishment would draw any customers away. There was something about the old dive that was charming. Maybe it was the regulars that almost made it feel like a second home.

  The room was full of men looking for a chance to unwind with friends after work: loggers, clerks, and miners alike. Sometimes even the occasional deputy or sheriff. Patrons segregated themselves at the small bar, just as they did everywhere else in town. There were long-time Riverwood residents: from Big Ralph and Eddie Sparks that ran the deli chatting in one booth, to Fred Young and Jack, my mother’s second husband, carrying on in the next. And on the other side of the room, the Eventide miners clustered together: big, hairy, biker types, half as loud as the rest. Eventide Resources kept a flow of unfamiliar faces coming in and out of town, so I only got a chance to get to know the ones that caused trouble. Charlene, the bony waitress with bleached blond hair and a skirt that barely covered her ass, moved from table to table with her tray of drinks. She and Paul were the only two in the bar that didn’t seem to care which side of the divide the patrons were on. My boots stuck to the dirty hardwood as I crossed the room toward the bar, the sticky floor boards squeaking with the lift of each footstep. A few people looked my way, but most laughed, drank, and ignored me.

  With a thick horseshoe of salt and pepper hair and only a few long, thin strands crossing his shiny dome, I would recognize Ernie Sherman anywhere. Even if the buzzing fluorescent lights weren’t reflected off of his head, the bold, yellow print on his brown jacket would have made him stand out in the sea of denim, plaid, and black leather.

  “Hey, Ernie,” I said, taking the stool next to him at the bar.

  The deputy kept his eyes on a bearded miner sitting on a stool on the other side of the room. “Boss,” he said, lifting his glass.

  “How was your day?” I asked. With that sour look on his face, I knew I should have gone home instead.

  “How was my day?” Ernie sat up straight and met my eyes. “Got a nail in my tire. You know where it came from.” Ernie scowled at the same bearded giant, who met Ernie’s stare with a cold, blank expression.

  “Did you get it fixed?” I asked.

  “First thing was a pothole,” Ernie said. “The corner of Pine Street and Chestnut. Car bounced right down and back up. They’re supposed to be making the town money, not making us pay to clean up after them.”

  “Did you call down and put in a service order?” I asked.

  “Well maybe I would have if as soon as I bounced out I hadn’t popped a tire.”

  “But you got the tire fixed, right?” I asked again.

  “Yeah, sure,” Ernie said, waving his hand at me, but holding his gaze across the room. “I called Pete. He came right over.”

  “Good.”

  “You know no one else is leaving nails in the street,” Ernie said.

  “Call in the work order,” I said, and waved to the bartender. “They’ll send someone out.” I would have explained that sometimes nails popped tires, and that it wasn’t necessarily Eventide. Sometimes tires popped before Aleister Sharpe had come to town with his promises and problems. But with Ernie, I knew it was no use. Indulging the line of conversation would only give him an excuse to get more riled up.

  “Sheriff Hiller,” Paul Finnley said with a smile, “can I get your usual?”

  “Please,” I replied.

  Paul filled a frosted glass from the tap, and I appreciated the way his thin, black t-shirt fit over his toned abs. He glanced up at me with that practiced grin that must have melted all of the girls’ hearts when he had been away at college, before he had returned home to work at his father’s bar.

  Paul set down the glass and leaned forward. “Thanks,” I said and turned back toward Ernie, dismissing the bartender.

  “Any plans for dinner?” Paul asked. “I get off of work soon.”

  Too young. Too complicated. I took the icy mug in my hand. “I’m good, thanks.”

  Paul walked back to tend to the city maintenance workers who were downing shots like it was a race.

  “He’s into you,” Ernie said.

  “I noticed,” I replied, and took a swig of beer.

  “Not the first you shut down,” Ernie said.

  “Nope.”

  “For someone who works for the people, you don’t seem to like people all that much,” Ernie said. “I mean, no offense or nothin’ but would it really hurt to say yes to one of those poor boys that look at you with their googly eyes?”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “I don’t see you off on any hot dates either.”

  “Well, Emma,” Ernie said, “look at you and then look at me. You should be having the time of your life, meeting men and finding one to make pretty babies with. I take what I can get.”

  “I tried the whole marriage thing,” I said. “I prefer having my space and alone time. It’s hard to balance a family and a career.”

  “Okay,” Ernie said, “but if I were you, I’d catch one now, while you’re still young and pretty.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I sipped my beer and listened to the noises that made Finnley’s great. Bellowing laughter came from two stools down, where Mack Clark had clearly won the drinking contest with his buddies. Finn laid on the floor and Joe looked queasy. Charlene giggled, and deep voices discussed fishing and sports. Though the miners looked more formidable than the Riverwood residents, they were the quieter of the two groups. Some talked about women and laughed, others whispered beneath the louder voices.

  “I don’t much care for the way they multiply,” Ernie said, scowling as he scanned the big men in leather jackets. I didn’t want to spend my evening off talking about my lack of social life or about Eventide Resources, but at least I knew Ernie wouldn’t hit on me.

  “You want them to make the town some money, right?” I asked. “If they deliver on Sharpe’s promises, we’ll have plenty to fix the roads.”

  “It wouldn’t need to be fixed if they weren’t driving those big trucks back and forth,” Big Ralph yelled over the chatter, with a nod to Ernie. There was some truth to the accusation, but the problem was more complex than Riverwood versus Eventide Resources. Conversations cut short, leaving the room quiet, and the two sides stared
daggers at each other. Well it should have been more complicated, since it was the Mayor that brought them in. But the people didn’t see it that way. With tension running high, it was only a matter of time before things got worse, and fast.

  “Don’t you go getting any ideas,” Ernie said, standing. He held his hand over his gun and strolled over to the miner he had been eyeing. “I’m the law in this here town. And you gotta respect the law.”

  The bearded man stood, and with him, followed the entire bearded, biker half of the bar. Charlene gasped, and dropped her tray to the floor, then darted across the room. That stick-thin woman could really move in those tall, wedge heels. She cowered behind Paul, whose eyes focused down to the place beneath the counter where his father kept the shotgun. Eddie Sparks walked slowly toward the biker half of the room, and I knew that look on his face.

  “Let it be,” I said, following behind Eddie.

  The tall butcher kept walking, ignoring my words. With a flick of the wrist, his beer soaked the white t-shirt of a thick-armed miner. Faster than I could follow, the wet man was three feet from where he had been, and Eddie was on his ass.

  “What the fuck?” Eddie said, holding his red jaw. The man with pork chop sideburns and short, brown hair stood over Eddie, baring his teeth in a face-contorting snarl. A deep, guttural growl escaped his clenched teeth with every ragged breath. His knuckles whitened with the tension in his balled fists. This miner I had met before—Roscoe Hicks.

  I moved between the two men.

  “This ends now,” I said in an even tone, looking back and forth between the two.