Page 6
Author: Kalayna Price
I whirled around. There were less than two yards between us, but he didn't press forward. Instead, he eyed me warily, one hand clamped against his leg. Dark liquid seeped into his pants, but not a lot, and not quickly. I'd been aiming to rip muscle, at least enough to slow him down, but I'd only scored a superficial wound.
My left wrist burned. I had to get the chain away from my skin. I clawed at the thin metal, and he took advantage of my distraction. He lunged, grabbing for me. I raised my claws, ready for him.
He hesitated.
Movement at the side of my vision alerted me to a newcomer. Great, and just when it looked like the tide might turn. With a violent shake of my arm, I dislodged the chain and sent it flying into the snow drift.
The newcomer moved toward us. I spun to face him, but that proved disastrous, as my vision swam again. The stray obviously saw his opportunity. His foot slammed into my knee. A sickening pop heralded waves of pain, and I went down.
The double combo of pain and drug were too much. I struggled to focus. A blackness behind my eyes grew denser. I lost seconds of time with each heartbeat. The broken sounds of a fight raging around me made no sense.
A hand landed on my shoulder, and I struck out with all the strength I had left. My claws sank into flesh. The darkness withdrew long enough for me to see surprised grey eyes studying me.
"You are not human,” the stranger whispered. He didn't smell like a shifter.
Alarm penetrated the deep water where my brain floated, but new panic didn't have time to set in. Blackness swept over me again, and this time, it didn't let go.
Chapter 3
The lumpy mattress under me smelled of mold and rat droppings. Rolling over, I blinked into the darkness. Something wasn't right. Where was I? The Davidson's? No, I'd moved on and jumped a train to a new city. Haven. Memory rushed over me: the hunters, Bobby, the party, being drugged, and the stray. The Stranger.
I jolted fully awake. The stranger on the street—he wasn't a hunter, and he knew I wasn't human. Who was he—rescuer or captor?
I made a quick scan of the unfamiliar room. There were no windows, only four cement walls and a heavy-looking door. No furnishing, no lighting fixtures, and no people. Not reassuring. Where the hell was I?
A wrongness clung to me, my body disconnected like a puppet with slack strings. How long had I been unconscious? Slowly I moved my arm and realized for the first time that I was shackled with a wrist manacle large enough to anchor a barge. I pushed away from the bare mattress. Sitting up made me lightheaded, and I had to wait for my vision to clear. My eyes followed the chain to where it disappeared into the cement floor.
So . . . the stranger was definitely not a rescuer.
I pulled hard, but aside from making an awful racket, nothing happened. Where am I? I dropped the chain. The rough metal scraped down my bare thigh as it fell. And where the hell are my clothes? The only scrap left on me was the woven cord of my necklace. I fingered one of the small bones bound in the leather as I glanced around the room; not even my shoes had been left.
I bit my lip hard. Was I wrong? Had the stranger been a hunter? Able to hide his scent somehow? All I could remember were those cold eyes. He hadn't smelled like a shifter, but where else could I be but in the holding cell of a hunter's safe house, imprisoned until the gate reopened and they hauled me back to Firth?
The latch on the door snapped loudly. I fell back on the mattress and pretended to be unconscious.
"Up, up little chicky! The sun is down, time to look alive,” a voice beside my ear said, and my eyes flew open. I hadn't heard her approach, but the most bizarre old woman I'd ever seen leaned over me. She smiled at me once she noticed she had my attention, and I flinched. “Good, good,” she said, standing up straight. “And, how are you feeling, chicky?"
I said nothing as she turned her back on me and pushed her frizzy white hair into what might've passed for a bun.
"Oh, all right, don't answer that,” she said, glancing at me over her shoulder. “I've heard it all before, anyway. You feel like you were hit by a car and buried over a week ago, not to mention the burning in your throat. ” She turned and smiled again. Her teeth were a sick yellow framed by pale, bloodless lips.
I grimaced, and she laughed. “What? Did you think you were the first little lost chick left on Mama Neda's doorstep? It's always the same story. Things get too hot and someone loses control, and next thing you know, they call Mama Neda to fix the problem. Does anyone call her when there's not a problem? Nooo, of course not. Leave the crazy old bat to putter away her time unless someone needs her. ” She paused and then said, “I never thought it would be the Hermit calling, though. Are you special, chicky?"
Her words pounded in my ears like she'd yelled over a megaphone. My brain spun. Who was this old woman? She didn't smell like a hunter, not that the elders would have let a woman, let alone such an old one, leave Firth. What happened to the stranger on the street? Had he brought me here, or left me to the hunter? Neither of those possibilities explained the old woman's presence, nor gave a hint of what she was talking about.
My voice crackled into nothing the first time I tried to speak, but finally I asked, “Who is Mama Neda?"
"Why me, of course. ” She leaned over me again. Spots of white flashed at the corners of her dark eyes; either her pupils were over-dilated or her irises were black. “Perhaps not the brightest chicky in the pen, no? I always thought brains should be a requirement, but I guess you've got a pretty face, and that's enough for most. ” She tugged a strand of my hair. “Would have waited for this to grow out though. Might like it for awhile, but it'll drive you crazy for an eternity. ” She leaned closer. I anticipated terrible breath to waft out of that gruesome mouth, but the air around me didn't shift. “Not very talkative, are you, chicky?"
I didn't think that deserved an answer.
"Oh, dear me. The chicky's throat. They'll say Mama Neda forgot her task. ” She scampered away, but paused before reaching the door. She considered me over her shoulder. “Stay here a minute. Mama Neda will fix that throat of yours. Better than new you'll be, chicky. "
As the chain had not been removed, I stayed where I was. What else could I have done? The old woman had mentioned being called by a hermit. The man from last night? But if he wasn't a hunter, why would he bring me to this jail cell of Mama Neda's?
Mama Neda was crazy, no doubt about it, but if she was my only jail warden, he couldn't expect to keep me here. The chain would hardly be an issue when I shifted; my hand would slide out as it changed into a paw. Shifting would also heal my wounds from the fight with the stray. Remembering the sickening snap my knee had made before I passed out, I glanced down and realized I'd been moving it without pain.
Strange. I didn't have a scrape on me. Not that being in better condition than I expected was something to fret over. I could figure it out later, once I was out of this basement and away from this cursed city.
I listened for Mama Neda's retreating footsteps, but the only sound I could hear was car traffic in the distance. She hadn't closed the door behind her, and the stairway beyond was visible. A single panel of light illuminated a door at the top of the stairs. Mama Neda had been wearing a summer dress, which was ridiculous in this weather, so the stairway must lead up to a heated building. She might have left that door unlocked as well. Careless of her, but good news for me.
Well, no telling how long she would be gone, so no time to waste. Reaching deep inside, I called for my cat to shift forms, and found . . . nothing.
Not a rub of fur emerging nor a sense of waking, nothing but growing panic answered my call. Part of me embraced the panic with an edge of relief; if I got worked up enough I would shift instinctively. Still, my body remained whole. I had failed to shift on command in the past, but I'd always felt something while trying.
I searched harder and finally sensed the energy inside
me, but it was hard, cold. Not possible. I pushed harder, but all I found was a dead coil where my cat should have been. A chill crawled down my spine. It had to be the effect of another drug or this place, somehow. I slid off the mattress, placed my feet on either side of the chain, gripped it with both hands, and heaved with all my might. It didn't give an inch. Okay, I needed a tool or . . . my eyes searched the room frantically, but saw nothing that could break the chain. Working spit around the manacle proved useless, it wasn't coming off. At least, not with my hand still attached.
I stopped and stared at my wrist.
If I could get out of this basement, I could figure out what was stopping me from finding my cat. Biting my lip, I tried to think clearly. I wouldn't actually have to rip off my hand, just crush it so it could slide free. My hand would heal when I shifted. My stomach clinched at the thought, but I reminded myself I had no idea what my captors planned for me. Getting away with only a crushed hand might be a small price compared to what might happen if I stayed. I closed my left hand around my right and shut my eyes. A big, deep breath.
"What're you doing, chicky?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Unfortunately, not literally.
Mama Neda peered down at me with colorless black eyes. I got the distinct impression she knew exactly what I'd planned. Letting my hands fall to my sides, I tried to look unruffled. That this old woman could hold me prisoner was one thing, that she had snuck up on me twice was unsettling. I looked through her, the blank look any cat worth her salt could summon at will.
Mama Neda appeared unimpressed.
"Drink this, chicky. ” She held out an orange, plastic mug.
When I didn't reach for it, her smile vanished. She didn't move, or change her expression, but suddenly my stomach twisted. A wave of fear crashed over me. I grabbed the mug. Lifting it to my lips before the next thud of my racing heart, I swallowed the viscous liquid. My throat immediately felt better; my stomach calmed; my body registered relief, as if one sip had been a whole meal after several days’ fast. I swallowed another mouthful. That taste . . . metallic. And the smell. No, why would she. . .
Once Bitten Page 6
