Outfoxed: A Zodiac Shifters Paranormal Romance: Gemini

by Melissa Snark

  Three coyote-shifters loitered beneath the street lamp, chain-smoking and arguing over sports. Naturally, it wasn't the beginning to a joke but just another instance of the bad luck that seemed to be following Hannah around. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't seem to catch a break. She had to wonder what god she'd pissed off.

  With her metaphorical tail aquiver, Hannah peered out from behind the dumpster to steal a quick look. Although she didn't know their names, she recognized the three rough-looking men as enforcers who worked for Balthazar Latimur, a Los Angeles crime boss who also happened to be a werewolf. She'd heard them more than a block off, but they still hadn't noticed her yet. She intended to keep it that way. Turning her head, she studied the distance between the dumpster and a squat planter that separated the rear walkway from the parking lot. Beyond the exposed gap, the retaining walls would provide her with concealment all the way to the stairwell entrance. She just had to cross it without being noticed.

  The men hadn't budged from their post once in the twenty minutes she'd spent watching them. They showed no inclination to movement any time soon. Briefly, she considered circling around to the front of the building but Balthazar's goons were bound to be watching both entrances. Besides, the main entry offered no cover. The rear was her best bet. She'd have to risk it.

  Hannah crouched and coiled, preparing to perform a standing leap. Shifting to her fox form would've rendered her less noticeable and swifter. Doing so, however, introduced a whole 'nother set of problems... starting with no pockets. She preferred not to lose two sets of clothing in one night, especially not her favorite coat.

  Over the course of their argument, the enforcers broke into frequent loud outbursts. Hannah listened intently, gaging the ebb and flow of their conversation but kept her eyes locked on the target—the spot behind the planter where she wanted to land. Her bunched muscles strained her joints, and the jump required precision and control. If she fell short of her goal or went too high, the chances of being seen shot up to an unacceptable level.

  "...not a snowball's chance in hell of the Raiders winning—" One of the coyote-shifters said. Before he finished the sentence, another of the enforcers, apparently a rabid Raiders fan, interrupted. Another heated dispute broke out.

  Swift and silent, Hannah leapt, sailed across the gap and landed on all fours. Crawling, she followed the planter to the rear entry and then swished around the corner into the stairwell, to where it was finally safe to stand. She ascended the stairs in a blind rush, confident in her surefootedness.

  As she climbed, she yanked out her phone and placed the fifth call in an hour to her sister, Fiona. It rang. "C'mon, pick up," Hannah muttered, but—for the fifth time—it went straight to voicemail.

  "Hi, you’ve reached Fiona Kelly of Feisty Fox Catering. I’m sorry that I’m not available to answer your call at the present time. Please leave your name, number, and a quick message at the tone and I’ll be sure to get back to you."

  "Fiona, I know I'm way past our check-in time, but I ran into a problem. This really isn't the time to get pissy. I'm home now. Call me." Hannah ended the call. She desperately hoped she was right about being on the receiving end of one of her twin's hissy fits.

  She shoved the phone into the pocket of her coat and groped for her keys in the same action. She reached the second story and hurried through the hallway toward the three-bedroom apartment she shared with her grandmother and sister. A part of her wished she'd taken Silver up on his offer to help, but she dismissed the notion out of hand. It'd always been just the three of them—Hannah, Fiona, and their maternal grandmother, Bonita. When their mother died in childbirth, Bonita had stepped in to raise them. While they'd been growing up, their "good-for-nothing father"—Bonita's words—had never been in the picture much. Fox-shifter Jack Kelly was a charming, conniving conman. He put in brief, unpredictable appearances in their lives, but never when it mattered. Hannah learned the hard way that she could only count on three people—herself, her sister, and her Nana. Men, especially smooth-talking rogues, couldn't be trusted.

  She got the correct key in hand, looked up, and stopped dead in her tracks. The door to her apartment stood ajar. Forced open, based on the busted lock.

  Fear spiked an adrenaline surge that left her shaking from head to toe. Senses on high alert, she tilted her head and listened intently. In her fox-form, she could detect the rustling of a mouse beneath six feet of snow and soil. As a woman, her auditory perceptions were less astute but still far superior to those of a regular person.

  Only silence greeted her.

  Tensed to spring, she crept forward on stealthy feet. She pressed her fingertips to the chipped paint surface of the door and pushed it cautiously inward. The interior of her apartment looked like the aftermath of a tornado. Just inside the entryway, papers littered the ground, knocked from the surface of the small oak desk Fiona used to manage her catering business. Its drawers had all been left open or ripped out—the contents dumped. The office chair lay on its side. She stopped to right it, even though the gesture wasn't enough to even make a dent in the enormous mess.

  Breathing through her mouth, Hannah tested the air. Aside from herself, Nana, and Fiona, she picked up at least three distinctive scents—musky and male. The mixed aromas of cigarette smoke and booze flavored the miasma. She'd have bet her canines that the three coyote-shifters downstairs had been the ones to trash her place. She swore, if she ever got a chance to settle the score, those assholes were toast.

  A sudden clatter from the kitchen startled the wits out of her. Heart in her throat, Hannah jumped a good two feet off the ground but landed without toppling. A scraggily black blur raced past her and into Bonita's bedroom, which was in the same state of disarray as the rest of the house. She only spared the mess a fleeting glance.

  "Dante, it's only me, you stupid cat," she said with a nervous laugh. Her anxiety, however, remained and threatened to turn into full-blown panic. Fiona should've been home hours ago. In an attempt to soothe her fear, Hannah tried telling herself that her sister must've fled through the fire escape while the intruders had been breaking in.

  Jittery, she eased further into the apartment. The destruction continued into the family room and also the kitchen. It seemed a safe bet the home invaders had also demolished both bedrooms. Reflexively, she reached into her pocket and closed her hand about the rune box. This must be what they were after. Hannah and her family didn't own anything else worth the amount of effort that'd been sunk into the search of their apartment.

  The window leading onto the fire escape stood wide open. Hannah leaned out, looking down, but found no hint to indicate whether Fiona had exited this way. Often, her sister left the window cracked because Dante liked to doze in the sun on the balcony, but usually not all the way open. Not in the middle of winter, or at night, or while they weren't home.

  The energetic buzz of her phone struck her jumpy nerves like a hammer. She jerked her head back inside, grabbed for and missed her pocket. Fumbling, she got the device out on the second try. The screen identified the caller as Fiona.

  A cry of relief burst from her. She swiped to accept and shoved the phone to her face. "Fiona, where are you? I've been worried sick—"

  "This is not Fiona." The man's cultured voice had a distinct Russian accent, but his enunciation was perfect. He conveyed the strength of a man in his prime.

  Lightheadedness rushed through Hannah and nausea punched her in the gut. Her lips and hands trembled. "Who is this?"

  "My name is Marcus Malkin. Roman Malkin is my father."

  "What have you done to my sister, you lowlife bastard? Put her on the phone right now. So help me if she's been hurt, I'll hunt you down and make you pay—"

  "Calm down. Your sister is unharmed, and she will remain so, so long as you provide your full cooperation."

  "What do you want?"

  "The return of the item you have stolen."

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Panic pervaded her mind, rendering
rational thought impossible. She faced an impossible choice—hand over the rune box to Balthazar as ransom for her grandmother or give it to Malkin to buy her sister's freedom. Either way, she lost.

  One certainty overrode all others: Roman Malkin and his international crime syndicate scared her a thousand times worse than a small-timer like Balthazar. If forced to choose, she'd do whatever Malkin said and figure out how to deal with Balthazar later. It helped that her grandmother would've told her to do the same—put Fiona first.

  "I don't know what you're talking about." Hannah lied because she desperately needed to buy herself time to improvise a plan. Unless she'd been tortured, Fiona would never have told the Russians anything about her family or accomplices. Hannah couldn't bear the thought of her twin sister being hurt, so she had to believe that Malkin had nothing to connect them but conjecture.

  "Don't treat me like a fool," Marcus said in a tone sharp with annoyance. "This isn't a game you wish to play. My security chief, whom you bit, identified you at the scene of the crime. Your sister has already confirmed it."

  Hannah's lips parted in sudden self-recrimination as she put two and two together. The security guard who'd burst into the study had seen Hannah before she'd shifted. Anyone who'd met Fiona would've placed them as identical twins at a glance. Fiona's capture was Hannah's fault. She never should've been seen at the crime scene and wouldn't have been if not for that blasted coyote. The second Hannah's cover had been blown, her first thought should've been to warn her sister to flee. Her preoccupation with Silver may very well have cost Fiona her life. Her ire toward Silver returned hot and bright. Damn him, and damn herself.

  "I will allow you one more opportunity to answer honestly," Marcus said, thick with threat. "Do you have the item?"

  "Yeah," she snapped. "I've got it."

  "Good. I am pleased you have chosen to be smart. Follow my instructions, return the stolen goods, and both you and your sister will be allowed to go free, unharmed."

  "Why should I believe you?" Unshed tears stung her eyes while fury and frustration writhed within her like wrestling serpents. She couldn't believe this man or anything he said. Hell, she didn't even know who she was dealing with.

  His voice resonated with power. His charisma compelled her, powerful enough to affect her even across the phone, oddly soothing. "Because you are fortunate enough to be dealing with me and not my father. I was raised in the U.S. I am not a member of the Bratva. Do you know what that is?"

  "Yes. It's the Russian mafia." She swallowed, working around a huge lump stuck in her throat, and nodded even though he couldn't see the gesture. To the best of her knowledge, Roman Malkin only had one legitimate son. Marcus, the heir to the family fortune and also the international crime syndicate.

  Not a nice man, no matter what he claimed.

  "Close enough," Marcus muttered.

  "How do I even know my sister is still alive? I demand to speak with her."

  He muttered something in Russian that sounded like a curse. "You'll have to hold for a minute. I'll have to make a conference call to put you on with Fiona."

  "I'll hold." Hannah clutched the phone for dear life.

  The phone crackled and went dead silent. For an anxious instant, Hannah thought he'd hung up on her. The next minute or so proved to be the longest of her life. Then, without any warming, Marcus returned.

  "Say hello to your sister, malen'kaya lisa. Assure her you haven't been harmed, but don't say nothing else," Marcus instructed with a stern note of warning.

  The receiver picked up scratchy static. Then, in her honeyed voice, Fiona asked, "Hannah?"

  "Fiona. Oh, thank the gods. Are you okay, sweetie? Has he hurt you?" Hannah squeezed her eyes shut, freeing tears she'd fought to suppress. She shook in the grip of tremors.

  "Sis, I'm fine. He hasn't hurt me. I'm so sorry I got caught. This is my fault—"

  "That doesn't matter. What matters is you're okay." Hannah focused on the here and now, dismissing all else. Later, once Fiona was home safe, they could worry about how to rescue their grandmother without the rune box. There'd be more than enough time later for confessions and blame. Assuming they lucked out and lived.

  "He's taking away the phone," Fiona said, talking fast. She raised her voice to carry, "I love you! Be careful."

  Moments later, Marcus said, "There's a silver sedan parked in front of your building. I'm waiting with three of my men. Meet me with the item."

  "And then?" Hannah sank her teeth into her lower lip, gnawing it. Despite his assurances, she didn't trust him, but then she also didn't have any other choice in the matter.

  "Once you have turned over my property, your sister will be brought to you... Or you may accompany me, and I'll take you to her."

  "All right. I'm upstairs in my apartment. I'll be down in a minute. I'm hanging up now." She ended the call. Her shoulders hunched beneath the enormous burden weighing upon her. Counting to five, she strove to regulate her breathing and clear her head of fear and anxiety.

  Marshalling her strength, she hastily yanked her pistol from her coat. She stared at it hard, debating whether to bring it. He hadn't said not to come armed. She wanted to take it with her. Trouble was, her sundress offered nothing in the way of hiding places for a firearm, and if the professional guards were competent—which she considered highly likely—they'd frisk her, find the gun, and confiscate it. She preferred not to lose the Glock but she also loathed the thought of going unarmed. Ultimately, she opted to keep it and returned it to her pocket.

  On her way out, she closed and locked the window leading to the fire escape. Even though the lock was busted, Hannah pulled the door shut, wedging it into the jamb so the cat couldn't get out. Hopefully, none of her neighbors would notice and decide to investigate, or worse, call the police. She flew down the stairs and exited through the rear lot only to confront Balthazar's goons, still at their post.

  Shit. How could she have forgotten them? Trying not to attract attention, Hannah pivoted on the ball of her foot and sprinted in the opposite direction, which happened to be toward the front of the building where the Russians were waiting. If the goddess of luck smiled on her, the two groups would take care of each other.

  "Hey you! Stop!" A male voice shouted after her, and the others echoed it. Footsteps stomped across the pavement, signaling their pursuit. So far, so good. Her plan was working.

  Riding a rush of adrenaline, she kicked her pace into top gear. When she reached the corner, she executed a sharp turn that altered her course almost ninety degrees. With Balthazar's goons hot on her heels, she couldn't spare even a second to slow down and get her bearings. Everything zipped past in a blur.

  Ahead, the street was deserted except for two large men who loitered beside a silver sedan parked on the curb. Considering that her neighborhood wasn't the sort of place that attracted dangerous-looking men in suits, she assumed they were Malkin's men. Two more guys sat inside the vehicle's backseat. The suits turned with handguns aimed at her, pretty much confirming her suspicions.

  Hannah gritted her teeth and quelled the instinct to run in the opposite direction. Fiona's life depended on her cooperation, and it would be difficult enough to explain Balthazar's goons to the Russians.

  "Stop!" One of the pair commanded in a heavy accent.

  "Don't shoot! I need help!" Hannah threw up her hands and ran straight at the Russians, leading the coyote-shifters straight into the trap.

  A whirlwind of activity exploded all around. The men shouted at each other, issuing competing commands. They were loud and angry, and from the sounds of it, no one was listening to anything the other group said. The sedan's backdoors swung open and the other two Russians jumped out: grizzly-sized Marcus Malkin, and a blond-haired man of equally enormous stature.

  A sharp crack of gunfire split the air.

  Chapter Nine

  Her plan had worked like a charm!

  Before Hannah finished congratulating herself, more guns went off in a volley. A bu
llet whizzed past her face, so close she could've kissed it. Abruptly, she reconsidered the apparent brilliance of her strategy. Getting shot in the head lacked any sort of innate appeal. Okay, new plan—avoid becoming some gangster's stuffed fox trophy.

  Crossing mental fingers, Hannah stayed low and charged straight past the Russians. She took refuge at the rear of the sedan, crouching beside the trunk. For a few seconds, it played out to her advantage. The shootout continued while she stayed safe under cover.

  The powerful roar of an engine cut through the din, coming toward her. Alarmed, Hannah twisted around to look over her shoulder as the front bumper of a black van bore down on top of her.

  Her heart jumped into her mouth, and she sprang straight into the air. Her leap carried her high but not wide—at least ten feet straight up. Right before the van collided with the sedan's rear end, the driver slammed on the brakes. Tires screeched, rubber burned, and the van turned ninety degrees, revealing the open sliding passenger side door. Only about a foot of space separated the two vehicles.

  Hannah landed on her feet, and a man immediately wrapped his arms around her torso. Before she reacted, her abductor hauled her into the interior of the van. Her nose gave her his identity—Silver, damn him—even though she still hadn't gotten a good look at his face yet.

  Another guy slammed the sliding door shut. He had long blond hair, a heavy musculature, and the potent scent marker of a werewolf. The van's sudden acceleration pressed Hannah's back against Silver's chest as they slid toward the rear.

  "Let go of me!" She fought to be free of his hold. He had her arms pinned securely to her sides, so she kicked at his legs.

  "Take it easy! It's okay. It's me. I saved you." Silver's husky voice filled her ear, offering what was meant as reassurances. He hugged her tighter.

  "I didn't need saving!" Furious, she swung her elbow and nailed him in the side. He omphed and finally let her go. The second she got free, Hannah tried to stand but the vehicle took another sharp turn, knocking her off her feet. She crashed to the floor again and decided it was smart to stay down while the van was still moving.