Savage Retribution

by Lexxie Couper

  Jesus, you’re pathetic.

  He stared into the empty driver’s seat, looking for anything in the shadows that might tell him something about Reggie’s abductor, trying like hell to shut the traitorous realization he wanted Yolanda to seduce him—wanted her, period—from his mind.

  “Where are you, Reggie?” he murmured, crouching down and studying the seat and steering wheel. The memory of her destroyed sofa and the tuft of grey animal fur he’d found on it crossed his mind and he frowned. Rising to his feet, he leaned into the wreck, peering at the gloomy area behind the front seats. Looking for…what? More animal fur? Signs an animal had been in the car? A leash?

  His gut sank. Shit. “Nothing.”

  “Did you expect to find her there?” Yolanda asked, sarcasm rolling through her accent. “Maybe trussed up, waiting for you to save her, yes?”

  He snapped upright, letting her see the cold contempt on his face. “Go.”

  She recoiled at the blunt force of the word. “Go where?”

  “Away. From me.”

  Glossed lips pursed and she shifted her weight, jutting her hip forward—a spark of her old femme flaring like blue fire in her eyes. “Make me.”

  Anger exploded in Peter again. “Don’t you get it, Yolanda?” He ground out. “This is my sister I’m trying to find. Trying to save.” He shook his head, letting her see his rage and frustration and, yes, even his fear. “For fuck sake, I don’t know who has her or what he’s doing to her! All I’ve got to go on is an ambiguous scrawl on a mirror which may or may not be a lie and two names so common I’d be questioning half of the state!” He dragged his fingers through his hair, wanting to drive his fist through something—anything—in an attempt to destroy the complete and utter sense of helplessness eating at him.

  Yolanda gazed back at him, motionless.

  “You want me to trust you?” he spat out, knowing breaking point was close but incapable of caring. “You want a relationship with me? Then stop making smart-ass comments and help me find her.”

  She stared at him. Stared into him. “You love her, don’t you,” she finally said, her voice free of artifice for the first time since they’d met.

  “Of course, I love her,” he snapped. “She’s my sister.”

  She tilted her head to the side, unreadable eyes hidden in shadows. “Blood? Is that the only reason? A sense of obligation because she is your kin?”

  Peter clenched his jaw, throat tight, gut tighter. The late afternoon sun bore down on him, sucking the sweat from his body before it could bead on his skin. Yet he still felt cold. Cold, helpless and angry. “No,” he said, holding Yolanda’s stare. “I love her because she’s got a heart the size of an elephant, a sense of humor sharper than a knife and a sense of loyalty that would make a Labrador envious. I love her because she’d give her life to defend those incapable of defending themselves and would do so willingly. I love her because she never thinks of herself first and has a stronger moral center than every High Court judge, social worker and religious leader I know.” He paused, dropping his stare from Yolanda’s eyes to the mangled Jag once more, picturing Reggie there in the passenger’s seat, terrified, hurtling toward possible death along a road miles from her home. “And if—no, when, I find the bastard responsible for this, I will make him wish I’d never been born.” He turned back to Yolanda, jaw clenched. “Because trust me when I say, partner, you don’t mess with someone I love and expect to walk away from it.”

  Yolanda looked at him, silent, still, her eyes enigmatic pools of shimmering blue. A sad expression flickered over her features and she let out a soft breath. “I wish I’d met you about three hundred years ago,” she said, the words a barely audible whisper.

  Peter blinked, tension gripping him in vise. “What?”

  Shocked surprise flittered across her perfect face and she gave her head a sharp, violent shake. “Never mind,” she said, contempt so thick in her voice he almost saw it flaying her flesh.

  “What do you mean, ‘never mind’?”

  “Nothing. It is of no consequence.”

  Peter narrowed his eyes. “Who hurt you, Yolanda?”

  She froze, shoulders growing stiff. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Who made you this way? You’re like an abandoned puppy, desperate for affection yet scared of the hand that feeds you. Scared it’s going to lash out and strike.” He paused, his pulse pounding, his throat tight. “Who did this to you? Because I’d really like to meet him.”

  She cocked a contemptuous eyebrow. “And do what?”

  “What do you think?”

  For a moment, nothing, and then she looked away. “He would kill you before you had the chance.”

  An angry beat smashed through Peter’s chest and he curled his hands into hard fists. “Let him try.”

  She opened her mouth, her eyes swimming with uncertainty, shining with barely contained tears, and her cell phone rang. Snatching it from her pocket, she dropped her head forward, the white-blonde curtain of her hair cascading around her face, hiding it from him as she studied the cell’s small display. Her shoulders tensed and, without a word, she turned away from him, storming from the crash site, spine stiff, shoulders square, phone still ringing in her hand.

  Peter watched her go, blood roaring in his ears, heart pounding in his chest. Everything about her body said, “leave me alone”. Such a contrast to the woman he’d first met, perched on his desk at work, sultry sensuality oozing from her in waves. “What the fuck is going on?”

  He turned back to the Jag, wishing to God and Jesus and the Devil himself it would tell him its secrets. Tell him where Reggie was, who she was with, if she was hurt or not, and while it was at it, tell him who the fuck Yolanda Vischka was, what she had done to him and how he was ever going to survive her.

  He gazed blankly at the stolen car, heart thumping, body tense, and for a frozen, split second, the very last wish seemed to engulf him.

  He dragged his hands through his hair. “Fair dinkum, I’m screwed.”

  * * * *

  Epoc stood in his private office, watching the eastern sky over the harbor turn to a pink and violet canvas as the sun began to sink below the horizon behind him. He studied a line of seagulls gliding north through the darkening dusk sky, heading, no doubt, to Manly and the hordes of tourists who populated the seaside suburb every night; tourists with too much beer in their bellies to read the signs plastered everywhere on the harbor promenade that read, “Do not feed the seagulls”.

  “It’s time,” he said aloud, admiring the effortless way the birds rode the sea breezes, as though gravity was a thing afflicting only man. “Bring him in.”

  “But…” A disembodied voice wafted from the telecommunication speakers embedded in the surface of his desk, soft but—unexpectedly—resistant. Defiant.

  “Remember who you were before I took you in,” he interrupted. “A homeless, unwanted female, lost, without family and struggling to survive. Easy pickings for those who may have wanted to do you harm or use you for their own nefarious purposes. Remember how grateful you were when I allowed you to become a member of my clan, when I gave you a sense of belonging. A sense of place.” A small smile of power played over his lips. “You do remember, don’t you?”

  Silence stretched from the speakers for a long moment. Epoc’s smile widened. His prick twitched with dark victory.

  “I remember,” came the answer. Low. Somehow dejected.

  “Of course you do,” he said smoothly. Smugly. “The sun has set, Yolanda. It’s time to bring the brother in. Now.”

  Chapter 11

  Regan directed McCoy’s van through the darkening streets, flicking her attention continuously from the road to Declan beside her and back to the road. He’d fallen into a fitful sleep on the outskirts of Sydney, sweat wetting his skin, trembles shaking his body, and while she knew he needed rest, his silence scared the shit out of her. She wanted to wake him, but didn’t. At least he wasn’t arguing with her to turn
around and head north.

  Guiding the van through the traffic, she chewed on her bottom lip. The whole journey back into the city, she’d expected McCoy to somehow jump onto the moving vehicle, climb into the cab and finish what he’d begun. When she wasn’t staring hard at the road, or shooting Declan worrying glances, she watched the rearview and side mirrors, positive she’d see an enormous wolf sprinting after her in the stretching dusk shadows, red-gold eyes burning with depraved promise and evil hunger.

  But here they were, seconds from Rick’s practice, and not a wolf in sight. Well, with the exception of the one beside her, although Declan still existed in his human form. For the moment.

  She sucked in a slow breath, scanning the street for a parking spot outside the vet clinic, hoping Rick was already inside waiting for her. Manly was not the suburb to drag a semi-unconscious, half-naked bleeding man along the footpath, especially at this time of the evening when people descended on the suburb to eat, drink and party the night away. Too many tourists, too many curious eyes, too many waggling tongues. If Epoc did have plants everywhere, they’d learn very quickly where she was. Where Declan was. She needed to get him behind closed doors as quickly as possible.

  Spotting an empty space not more than a few yards from Rick’s practice, she swung the van in, bumping the front wheel to the curb with a clumsy jolt. Declan moaned softly, already-closed eyes closing tighter as pain etched his features anew. “Sorry, Paddy,” she murmured, jumping from the driver’s seat. She hurried around to the curb, studying the area around her with quick glances before opening the passenger door. She didn’t know what she expected, but every fiber of her being told her to be on edge. Alert.

  “Need help?”

  She spun around, eyes wide, muscles coiled. “Rick,” she gasped, slumping against the van’s side, glaring at the tall man with light brown hair frowning at her on the sidewalk. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  Rick’s eyebrows shot up, fudge-brown eyes immediately concerned. “You really are in trouble, aren’t you?”

  Regan scrubbed at her face with her hands. “You could say that,” she answered into her palms. Pushing herself from the van, she stared long and hard at Rick. How the hell did she explain the last seventeen hours to him? She suppressed a sigh, reaching for the passenger’s side door handle. “No questions, okay?”

  Before he could answer, she opened the door.

  Declan slumped in the seat, sweat-slicked face white, slight shudders wracking his body, blood—both old and new—staining his pale, clammy flesh.

  “What the fuck?” Rick gasped beside Regan.

  Declan rolled his head to the side, glassy-eyed gaze slipping from Regan to the man beside her. “Ná bain di, tuilí.”

  “It’s okay, Declan,” she said softly, leaning across his body to unclip the seatbelt holding him upright. Blazing heat radiated from him in waves. Sick, insidious heat she knew all too well accompanied sick, insidious pain. Regan’s stomach clenched and she quickened her pace, not wanting to send any jolting movements into his fevered limbs but knowing she raced the clock. “I’m here.”

  Delirious, grey eyes slid to her. “Run. Get away. I’m sorry. I never meant…” His eyelids fluttered closed and a grimace scrunched up his face. “Scaoil í.”

  “Jesus, Regan.” Rick jumped forward, helping her remove Declan from the van. He wrapped one strong arm around his back, hefting him from the seat to the sidewalk. “What the fuck is…”

  Declan stiffened, a suddenly lucid stare locking onto Rick. “Bain di agus réabfaidh mé do scornach.”

  “I’ve no fucking idea what you’re saying, mate,” Rick muttered, hitching Declan further up his side with the gentle skill of a person used to moving large creatures in agony. “But I hope it’s thank you.”

  A sharp groan burst from Declan’s dry lips, his eyes squeezed shut and he slumped forward again. Another wave a violent shudders took possession of his body, the short length of chain attached to the shackle on his wrist rattling with each.

  Rick looked at Regan, his level stare speaking volumes—I want answers—before he turned and walked slowly toward the open door of his clinic, carrying most of Declan’s weight with him.

  Regan slammed the van’s door shut and followed, worry eating at her like a cancer. What if she was too late? Declan’s condition had deteriorated so quickly over the last thirty minutes. What if—

  “Stop it, Woman!” she hissed to herself. Now was not the time.

  Stopping at the clinic’s door, she hurriedly studied the street. It was almost empty, Rick’s practice situated as it was, two blocks from the main strip. Several people wandered around, mostly heading for the restaurant drag, but no one had bothered with them. Not even to cast a curious sideward glance. She breathed a sigh of relief and the sudden black lights swirling across her vision made her realize she’d been holding her breath.

  The sting of disinfectant, ammonia and animal urine assaulted her nose as she stepped into the clinic’s waiting room. The smell normally calmed her. It was a smell she associated with her uni days, made her think of recovery and care for those in need, but tonight it made her nerves string taut. In the back rooms, dogs locked in cages overnight awaiting surgery the following day barked and whined, the sound sad and somehow lonely. A lone cockatoo called for an owner not there, obviously disturbed from its sleep by the unexpected interruption. “Mavis,” it called repeatedly. “The lights are on! Mavis, the lights are on!”

  The low nightlight on the front counter cast the area in looming shadows, the sinking sun adding its own through the louvered blinds on the windows and door. Anyone could be hiding, waiting in those shadows. Anyone…A chill rippled up her spine and she scowled.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. McCoy is not here. Wake up, Woman.

  She crossed the foyer, heading toward Rick’s main operating room. Brilliant white light streamed through the thin cracks around the door, telling her the vet had wasted no time. He never did.

  Declan lay stretched on his back on the stainless steel table when she entered the room, turbulent, grey eyes closed. A tube poked from between his lips, held in place by two strips of sticking plaster. The tattered remains of his black shirt were gone, now nothing but a crumple of blood-soaked material on the floor at Rick’s feet. She ran a stunned gaze over his lean form, throat clamping shut at the hideous lesions and gashes crisscrossing his rib cage and chest. Jesus, it looked as though he’d been attacked by a pack of wild animals.

  Which is exactly the case, isn’t it? Two werewolves on one. Declan chained, the others free. Thanks to you.

  Guilt consumed her and she bit back a moan.

  “It’ll take about five minutes for him to go under completely.” Rick adjusted the controls on a large canister positioned at Declan’s head, feeding a steady stream of anesthetic into his lungs. “That’s five minutes of answers I want before I begin.”

  Regan stopped on the other side of the table, wanting to thread her fingers through Declan’s, to make sure he was still warm. Still alive. “I can’t, Rick.”

  Two very angry, very worried brown eyes snapped to her face. “I saw you on the six o’clock news, Reg. The report stated you were abducted by a dangerous criminal!”

  Regan hissed in a breath. Bloody hell, what would her parents be thinking? They’d be going out of their minds.

  “Is this the criminal?” Rick continued, anger making his words deep and hard. “This bloke I’m just about to cut open? Has he hurt you? Are you okay?”

  Regan gave him a small smile. “I’m fine. Really. You know me, Rick. You think I can’t take care of myself?”

  Rick shook his head, refusing to let her gaze go. “I know you can, Reg, but you’ve a lump on your head the size of a tennis ball, scratches on your arms and neck that look like they’re from an animal of some sort and your eyes look like you’ve been to hell and back. And whoever this bloke is, he looks about twenty minutes away from death, babbles on in a language I don’t understan
d and seems to have a bullet wound in his side.” He rounded the table, smoothing his palms up her arms and staring hard into her eyes. “I’m sorry, babe,” he said, voice soft with worry. “But I don’t believe you. I want answers. I want to know what the hell is going on.”

  “Something you’d never hope to understand, pup.”

  Declan’s low growl spun both their heads around, and Regan gasped, watching the man sit up and swing his legs around, plant his bare feet on the floor and stand up, his eyes cold with deadly rage, the plastic tube only moments ago in his throat now crushed in his clenched fist.

  “Declan!” Regan began.

  “Hey!” Rick shouted, stumbling backward a step. “You can’t do that!”

  “Watch me,” Declan snarled, glaring at the stunned vet. Muscles coiled, he took one step. Another. Another.

  And then his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the cold, tile floor. Still.

  Rick raised his eyebrows. “Guess I was right,” he murmured.

  * * * *

  Lifting her gaze from the sight of Declan laying motionless on the bed and covered only by a thin cotton sheet, Regan studied her surroundings. Rick used the spare room in his apartment as an office-cum-storage room. Stacks of thick veterinarian journals covered the small desk under the only window in the room—as well as the floor and side tables—surrounded by folders of paperwork, cardboard boxes, a neat pile of unironed laundry and a weight bench complete with cobwebs.

  She shook her head, a wry smile playing over her lips. Rick to a tee. Solid, dependable and a touch messy. Organized to the outside world, organized disorder within.

  Returning her attention to Declan, she chewed on her bottom lip. The Irishman on the other hand, was the embodiment of chaos, in little under a day turning her life upside down and inside out, turning it into a roller coaster of emotions and events she’d never forget or recover from. So different to Rick it made her head ache. She gently brushed a few strands of black hair from Declan’s forehead, noting his temperature seemed back to normal.