Rogue Huntress: a new adult urban fantasy novel (Rogue Huntress Chronicles Book 1)

by Thea Atkinson

  I didn't fancy stowing it away into the most obvious of places, and so instead, I decided to take a page from my mother's book. The most mundane of hiding places would cease to look like a hiding place if I did it right.

  I palmed the mickey and made my way to the door, pulling loose the hand towel from my wrists as I went. When it fell loose, and I felt the renewed burning of silver, I forced myself to hyperventilate to refocus my body's pain threshold. I was stronger than a bit of silver on a few tender bits of skin.

  I paused at the opening of the doorway, just to the left of it so that I could be seen, fully expecting to hear a bunch of voices, discussing the best angles and placement of the camera. Instead, I only heard two. Jeb and Caleb's arguing over the fact that he had left me alone. The workman must have been shooed away while I'd been industriously trying to get the mickey from the tank. Good. I didn't relish having to display my naked self to half the werewolves in my pack.

  Even so, I waited. I could hear Galen's voice in my mind, telling me that patience was above all the most important weapon an assassin had in her arsenal. By the time I managed to assess that the room on the other side of the door indeed held only two occupants, I was sweating again from pain. I knew that I would have to get this over quickly so that I could get the silver cuffs off me. That might mean I'd have to do a few things I wasn't comfortable with. Like give in to Caleb's advances. Like pretend I was submitting. Then like any good alpha, Caleb would be at the mercy of the next rogue who tried to depose him.

  I fully planned to be that rogue.

  I took a deep breath, and stepped into the room, dangling the mickey in front of me by its cap.

  "Look what I found," I said, trying on a grin that felt more like a grimace.

  Caleb's sharp intake of breath was the only evidence that I was still nude. My eyes flew to Jeb, who was casually tossing an apple--the bitter-looking green one from the bowl I'd noticed earlier--into the air. Either he had already tired of the sight of my nudity, or he wasn't looking at me. Good enough. I had to make sure my feigned interest was in Caleb anyway, and even though my captor's face was saturated with lust clearly enough that it should have left any woman paralyzed with either fear or desire, I found my gaze kept traveling to Jeb. His arms were crossed over his chest, the muscles of his neck rigid with tension, the apple resting on his bicep. I thought I saw his Adam's apple lodge in his throat more than once.

  Caleb ran a hand through his sandy hair. "Good girl," he said. "I almost expected you to jump out the window."

  I lifted my hands to indicate I was still wearing the cuffs. "In these?" I said. "Besides, you know there's no window in there."

  A grin slithered across his face. "Turn of phrase," he said.

  He took a step toward me, waving Jeb away. Those crystalline eyes of the mercenary's landed on me for one heartbeat, and I found myself struggling to breathe. He tossed the apple into the air one more time, then placed it neatly on the bedside table with a long, pointed look in my direction, tapped it once and then turned heel and retreated, ignoring the cell door but pulling the suite's door after that closed. I expected to hear it click, but it was nothing but a whisper of wood meeting wood. Not locked.

  For one second, I felt panic loom in my chest. I knew there was no way out, no way to hesitate or stall any longer. With Jeb gone, the deed would have to be done. I felt both thrilled and disgusted by what I knew would happen. It was difficult to swallow down the rising desire of my beast.

  I told myself that I had prostituted myself plenty of times over the centuries to my pack, doing what I needed to for its safety, committing horrible human crimes in the name of my pack. One small and insignificant deed that would only involve me, certainly couldn't hurt any more, not if it would save my brothers and the few peripheral innocents Caleb threatened.

  "Care for a drink?" I said. I had to concentrate on vengeance and escape. The damn beast within could find her plaything elsewhere. Sate herself and be done. The woman had a job to do.

  Caleb shrugged. "Maybe later." His advance was almost stealthy. Like he was stalking prey in the woods, he moved closer. He stopped within arm's reach of me.

  I swallowed. "Thanks for putting the mickey in the tank," I said, pretending I believed him responsible to deflect the fact that it hung from my fingertips at all.

  He shrugged magnanimously and I even though I wanted to throttle him for accepting the praise when he knew damn well he hadn't put it there, I was glad of the ego all the same.

  "You're a hard woman to convince. A little liquid courage."

  "Because torture only goes so far?" I said.

  "You know me, Shana." His finger tapped against his bicep. "I don't leave anything to chance."

  "So this is your way of letting me have some sort of dignity," I said, pushing the deflection further.

  "It's not dignity I'm after."

  "Right," I said. "You want control."

  He swept his arm across the space in front of him to take in the room. "I already have control," he said. "Your mother was a suspicious, anxious werewolf. I mean, what alpha female would install a panic room in the heart of her own sanctuary?"

  "You knew her," I said. "You know exactly what kind of werewolf does that."

  I thought of my maitre, all paranoia and viciousness hidden beneath the veneer of a carefully constructed mask of addiction and fear. I thought about the times she tried to toughen me up as a pup when Lynden was away on business, wrapping silver chains around my throat, pushing silver coins into the most tender spots a girl has, the hundreds of hours of locking me in tight dark crates with nothing but my hands and teeth to pry open the cover. It toughened me all right. So much so that I wept in confusion each night she came to my bedside and stroked my hair, calling me her little surprise trophy.

  It had worked, however, to some degree. In the brief moments I thought of her, I sent a thanks for the desensitizing practices. It was the only thing that kept me on my feet now despite the wound in the shoulder and silver across my wrists. It hurt like a bitch, but for short periods, I could block it out.

  I shivered as I recalled it all, but I pushed the thoughts away in the same manner I pushed open the tops of the crates and earned each stroke of my hair. The same way I steeled myself against the pain now. I dared Caleb with a look, feeling a sort of pride for the alpha female who bore me.

  "She was more than you bargained for."

  He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. As his eyes roamed my form, I could see the contemplation behind his expression.

  "She was...difficult."

  I laughed. "She never liked you."

  His expression fell, as though he'd never known the truth and I gloried it in until he spoke.

  "She never liked me, but she believed me when I told her how many of her secrets I knew. Fixed that problem pretty fast."

  I wasn't sure how to feel about that. My hand went absently to the wound on my shoulder, feeling the bandage, recalling all the sessions she had put me through to toughen me. Had he known about them after all? I was about to ask, when I felt a pebble beneath my finger. The pellet moved beneath the bandage. As it moved, it burned. Maybe I could scoop the thing right out.

  "You're starting to feel the shock of the bullet," he said, breaking into my reverie.

  "I'm feeling indignation and rage."

  He shook his head. "You're shaking. You don't shake from rage. You're too calm for that. Too collected."

  "So you know me now," I taunted and unscrewed the cap. I tried to toss it over my shoulder, and I remembered how encumbered I was with the cuffs keeping my wrists painfully together. Instead, I dropped the cap at my feet and stepped toward him. If he wasn't going to drink the damn stuff, I was going to ram it down his throat.

  In a flash, he was off the mattress, and grabbing me by the waist. It wasn't surprise that made me submit, rather the awkwardness of being trussed up, pain biting into my shoulder. I ended up thrown onto the bed, bouncing once before he was on
top of me, his knee between my legs and face hovering inches above my own.

  "I know you better than you can imagine. I know you want me. I know you enough to know that's no mickey of gin and to know you do too."

  Said mickey had fallen somewhere outside of my reach and I was dizzier now from the sudden movement. I stared up into his face, fighting the claustrophobia and the urge to struggle. I knew from experience that as soon as I gave into that instinct, the struggling would turn to panic and then I would lose my mind. I couldn't afford to lose my mind.

  "I can't breathe," I complained. "I'm just getting over being sick. Please, Caleb."

  "Submit, Shana."

  "You'll let my brothers go," I said.

  "I told you I would execute them if you didn't submit."

  The long lashes that shuttered his eyes beat like a moth's wing for several seconds and I thought he might be contemplating assaulting me right then without me fully surrendering. Something was running through his mind, that was for sure.

  Then I realized that what I was allowing to happen would not be for the good of the pack. An alpha who would force himself on a bondmate would stop at nothing to control those beneath him. A wolf who would barter for power with the lives of boys would not show mercy or compassion when most needed. And if he was threatened by their legacy for one moment, he wouldn't hesitate to cut short their tender paths to manhood.

  An alpha such as that would always put his own interests above those of the pack. Worse, if he managed to roll over the pack's assassin, how would he treat her later? As an equal? I doubted it. He would always use his position to exert his will over hers. There would be no partnership. He wasn't built for it.

  I'd been quiet and docile, submissive seeming even as I contemplated these things, and when he peered into my slack face, distracted from realization, he seemed to think he'd won. He smirked as he peeled himself away from my skin, finding the floor with his feet. Before I could push myself to my side, he had pulled a glove from his pocket and slipped it over his hand.

  I felt a brief moment of hope, thinking he might take the cuffs off. Then I followed his gaze and understood with a stark realization that he planned to tie me to the bedpost again. I'd be damned if I'd let him do that. I bolted from the bed, dizziness washing over me, and I found myself gripping the edge of the bureau and staring into the flesh of the bright green apple Jeb had left. I blinked as I caught sight of it. It was untouched except for a thin metallic line jutting out from the middle. A flash of color and no more, but I knew exactly what it was. The razor blade. Sometime during the time he'd left me in the bathroom and the time he met Caleb, he had extracted the blade from the safety razor.

  I didn't question why it was buried in the belly of the apple, I simply knew I had to use it.

  I grabbed for it not one second too soon, and I was swinging it with me as I spun around to face Caleb. He thought I was unarmed. He expected me to run, perhaps. Maybe put up a little fight. But he expected to win since I was so obviously weak from illness and pain.

  I sliced sideways, not caring what bit of flesh it sunk into or tore to ribbons. I pulled my arm sideways again, in the opposite direction, making a zig zag motion, using the belly of the apple as a handle, letting the razor's edge strike out wherever it could. I heard him curse and didn't bother to see whether or not he tried to stem the flood of blood with his hands. I just ran. I bolted for the door praying that the lack of click when Jeb had pulled it closed also meant it was open enough to escape through. I was almost through the open cell door when Caleb gripped me by the waist and I lunged forward, throwing my hands toward the doorframe. With his grip and my weakness, it put me off balance.

  We both fell to the carpet, and with my hands cuffed together I clawed my way forward and kicked backward at anything I could connect. There was no finesse. It was sheer blind panic. I felt several solid landings of my feet to his face. I was free, sweet god, I was free, just one more moment. I knew it. Caleb seemed to realize it too. He shouted from behind me for help and Jeb came rushing toward us both through the open door. I could see that behind him, stretching out in the wide expanse of portico, the jailer had vacated his post again. No one. No one but me, Caleb, and Jeb. The apple was at his feet, and I grabbed for it. Caleb's sticky grip on my ankle was tough to kick free.

  Jeb pulled open the cell door and bent down toward me.

  "Not today, bitch," he barked at me, and if it wasn't for the strange look in his eye, I would have thought he intended to grab for me. As it was, the grip he managed on my shoulders was strangely weak even as he hissed in my ear. His broad hands tugged me toward his chest as though he planned to hoist me into the air and launch me for the bed, and in so doing, made Caleb release my ankle. When Jeb pulled me to my feet, it was with a strong grappling hold powerful enough to shake me till my tongue caught between my teeth.

  "Cut me," he hissed in my ear as he pulled me into his chest. His slackening grip was as sudden as it was shocking.

  I didn't hesitate. I swiped out at him with the razored belly of the apple. It missed him, I knew it did because I felt no spray of blood, but he pulled back with a cry of outrage anyway, buckling over in a way I knew he would never give in to unless deadly wounded. I didn't care what his motive was. I launched myself for the open door.

  Kundalini Regrets

  If Jeb fell behind me, I wasn't sure. I just ran, stumbling, staggering, and almost falling twice through the portico as I headed for what I knew was my only option: my father's section of the wing. With the adrenaline saturating every muscle and every thought, I was going purely on instinct and blind panic. Only one line of thought sprinted through my reason, lashed forward by the flight half of the stress reaction. While my mother had installed a panic room, my father had been more rational in his approach to security. He'd installed a secret and hidden exit in his suite. I knew Caleb would remember it--I counted on his remembering it --and I knew he would follow me, expecting me to take flight toward that exit. I had every intention of making it look that way.

  What I really aimed for, however, was Lynden's massive wardrobe he'd had custom built by a shifter with a peculiar penchant for anything made of wood. The piece of furniture would be big enough to hide in while Caleb and Jeb made a fruitless search down the back exit stairs. I could wait, hopefully un-accosted, until I could sneak out to extract the cuffs from my wrists and transform long enough to heal my injuries. The sheer exhaustion would have to wait to be relieved.

  It wasn't much of a plan, but it was a plan. I should simply take flight down the exit, but this close to my bout with infection, I was still too vulnerable. I knew the route down Lynden's panic exit, and it ended with three choices for the runner, and consequently any assailants who would be tailing her: one toward a storm drain that was perpetually filled with run-off water and debris, masking any scent I might leave like a trail of breadcrumbs, but I wouldn't get far with cuffs on my wrists and a wound in my shoulder; one through the garden and straight up a different door that led to my mother's wing--assuming a panic room was the best bet for safety, but I would die before I went back there; and the final took the family member and any followers to an old crypt stuffed with every imaginable weapon known to mankind.

  Caleb would be certain I'd flown in search of one of those escapes, and he'd believe I'd obviously go for the arsenal, no doubt thinking I was blissfully unaware that he'd either dumped the weapons as he'd done to my mother's suite, or locked the crypt up tight as a drum from any loyalists.

  No. The stairs were for the less cunning. They were for shifters like Caleb who thought every other member of his pack was less intelligent than he. The wardrobe was my best plan under the circumstances. I knew the path down the back stairs took four minutes on a full run. Hopefully that would grant me enough time as they sped down the stairwell to find my true escape.

  I counted on Caleb believing in my desperate need to flee and my vulnerable state commanding me to take flight. He would never expect me t
o find succor in the very mansion he had taken over and used to imprison me. What Jeb would believe I didn't know; what his motives were escaped me altogether. I just knew they would never expect me to stay in plain sight. The self-same trick I could think my mother for. If I could get ahead of them enough that I could get through the secret door before they entered the suite, I could make it appear as though I had taken flight down the stairs.

  It took everything I had to push myself to the level of speed I needed, and my veins flushed heat across my cheeks so forcefully, my head was pounding by the time I reached my father's wing. I jagged left, where I knew his door waited around a purposefully constructed corner for just that reason, obscurity. I could hear Caleb and Jeb somewhere behind me, and I thought perhaps Jeb had tripped and fallen and had caught Caleb as he had done so. They were arguing, if my ears were correct, but I couldn't be sure over the sound of my own ragged breath. Their stumbling and arguing gave me plenty of time to lay my own ear against the door. Silence from inside. I was willing to bet that even with Caleb's callous nature, he wouldn't have been able to bring himself to enter this wing after he'd murdered the man who had taken him in as son. I put my hand on the knob and twisted.

  The door swung open easily and my knees nearly turned to wet teabags in relief. I eased the door closed behind me, twisting the lock when I felt the door meet its jam.

  I offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Spirit of my poor father and inched into the room, careful to swing my gaze in a quick scan of the area. Empty. The great Oak wardrobe squatted in its place opposite the bed and I ran passed it, choosing instead to yank open the drawer of his Bureau where I knew he kept the key to the secret exit. I slipped my hand up underneath the top of the Bureau inside the drawer, and felt along the wood until the key dangled in reach. I yanked it free of its hook, and sprinted for the tapestry on the other end of the room.

  The button behind it was stiff from underuse and it clicked as it stuck on a bit of gummed up lubricant, but at least it worked and part of the wall swung open. The door to the exit was right there. I fumbled the key into the lock and cursed when it slipped from my grasp and clunked onto the carpet. I had to scramble about the floor to find it and when I did, I pinched it tightly in my fingers. I had no time for slip ups, hand cuffs or no for an excuse. I jammed the point of it into the lock again. Thankfully, it clicked and the door pushed open easily.