Whispered Visions (Shifters & Seers Book 3)

by Tammy Blackwell

  If it hadn’t been for the gun or his concern for Lizzie’s safety, Layne would have burst out laughing. Lord of the house? Someone had illusions of grandeur. Feudal grandeur at that. What Lord Alistair needed was a wedgie.

  “We understand,” Lizzie said, cutting Layne a look that said he would not do anything stupid and Layne-like or else he would answer to her.

  “I truly am sorry for how things have progressed so far,” Alistair said, his face a mask of forced regret and concern. “I give you my sincerest promise that none of this was ever my intention. I truly want you to be happy here.”

  Layne couldn’t help but notice all of his regret and promises for a brighter and happier tomorrow were directed toward Lizzie. He had the distinct impression Lord Alistair would happily shove him under an oncoming bus.

  Unable to let Lizzie have all the attention, Layne stuffed his hands into his pockets. He had been studying power plays between members of the Alpha Pack for years and knew by looking like he didn’t give a shit about Lord Alistair or his gun he was establishing himself as the more dominant male. By the tightening of Alistair’s lips, he knew it too.

  “Where is here exactly?” he asked knowing they had to be hundreds, if not thousands of miles away from where they were abducted in Illinois.

  “This,” Alistair said, sliding the gun back inside his jacket, “is Brownlow Manor, home to the Viscount of Langford since the eighteenth century. Specifically, this set of rooms is on the eastern wall of the second floor. I’m told the sunrise can be quite spectacular from these windows.”

  Layne was still trying to figure out what a viscount was when Lizzie said, “We’re in England?” The scratchy roughness of her voice had Layne’s hands curling into fists. He took a deep breath and counted backwards from ten, the entire time vowing to kill Mack for every scream he’d ripped from her throat.

  “You are indeed,” Alistair said with a smile, as if he was proud Lizzie figured it out. “However, I’m afraid that for your safety, that is as specific as we can get at this time.”

  Their safety.

  Bull. Shit.

  Layne considered sharing his thoughts on the matter of where exactly Alistair’s concerns lay, but instead asked, “What do you want with us? Why are we here?”

  “Well, that is a bit more complicated. Perhaps we should…” He motioned toward the mismatched chairs gathered in a semi-circle in front of an elegantly carved fireplace. Lizzie nodded and started to move that way, but before she’d taken two steps, Alistair was next to her, placing his hand on her back as if to guide her to the sitting area.

  Thanks to the gloves she constantly wore, most people assumed Lizzie’s Sight only worked when she was touching flesh. Layne was one of the very few to know that wasn’t true. Yes, she avoided as much flesh-to-flesh contact as possible, but it was only because with flesh-to-flesh contact she had no ability to block or filter. If she was to brush the tips of her fingers across another person’s arm, she would be treated to everything going on in their head with no way to push it out. But Lizzie didn’t need bare skin to get into someone’s head. All she needed was to touch them. A layer of cotton couldn’t stop her power from working, but after years of practice and training, it could help her muffle it. She’d once compared it to putting in earplugs. She knew the thoughts were there, but they’d been dulled down to the point she could ignore them.

  At least, she could most of the time. But like any wall of defense a person puts up to protect themselves, under the strain of stress, fear, and exhaustion, it would crumble. Layne knew Lizzie’s walls were dust the moment he’d first opened his eyes.

  It only took a second for Layne to have Alistair’s wrist in his hand. He knew Mack was approaching from behind, but he didn’t take his eyes off the viscount’s face. “Don’t touch her. Ever,” he said, putting the power of a Dominant into each word. Even when Mack grabbed the back of his neck and pressed a needle reeking of drugs against his skin he maintained eye contact.

  The seconds stretched on. It took every ounce of Layne’s control not to attack, but he knew the moment he did, the needle would plunge into his flesh and Lizzie would be left alone. So he stood perfectly still, waiting for Alistair to make his move.

  “Please.”

  It wasn’t even a whisper, but everyone’s attention shifted to the girl who had gone so pale even the freckles covering her body seemed to be washed out. Her eyes were dilated and unfocused, and she was visibly shaking.

  “Jesus,” Alistair said, grabbing onto Lizzie’s arm with his other hand. “What’s wrong? Is this a reaction to the sedatives?”

  Layne ground his teeth together so hard he was pretty sure he heard one crack. “It’s a reaction to you touching her, you idiotic douche bag. Get your damn hands off of her.”

  The second it took for Layne to figure out what was going to happen was one second too long. The moment Alistair jerked his hands away from Lizzie, Layne lunged. His fingertips skimmed her falling body, wildly clutching at empty space as her head smacked against the floor.

  Chapter 3

  People liked to say Lizzie could read minds, but that wasn’t exactly true. She didn’t know precisely what she did, but as an admitted book addict, she knew what reading was, and what happened when she touched another living thing wasn’t reading.

  Reading implies someone has left a trail of decipherable codes to lead you from one place to the next. In a book, it’s words. One follows the next in a logical, easy-to-interpret fashion until you find yourself on the last page, bidding farewell to the characters you had grown to love (or hate) and the world you discovered and traipsed through from page to page.

  Unfortunately, people don’t think in decipherable codes or even leave a trail for you to follow. Yes, there are often words - My foot itches. Why is this weird girl touching me? Do I smell pizza? - but they’re scattered and piled up on top of one another like a mental game of Jenga where the smallest of stimuli brings the whole thing crashing down while simultaneously constructing another in its wake. It was madness and confusing, but if it were only the words, Lizzie would have been fine. Words she could handle. She loved words. But too often the words were washed completely away by the emotions, which were such a jangled, manic mess they made the words look like a picture book for infants.

  Sometimes, when she was really on top of her game, Lizzie could wade through the tangled mess of a person’s brain and make at least as much sense out of it as the person whose thoughts she was invading. Most days, she could only catch snippets of thoughts and emotions as they came hurling through her. When she was tired, however, it was nothing but noise, and not the kind that you could tune out or learn to deal with. This was the kind of noise the government used to force cults out of their compounds. When Alistair touched her, it was like an entire afterlife of tortured souls was screaming in her head. The moment his hands were gone the relief was so acute she literally collapsed.

  Probably not the best move since the floor beneath the threadbare carpet was solid wood.

  “Ouch,” she said, cradling her throbbing head in her hands. “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.”

  Someone dropped onto the floor beside her. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know who it was.

  “Move your hands so I can see if your skull is caved in.”

  Even in the midst of a kidnapping Layne Hagan was as charming as ever.

  “My skull is fine. It’s my brain that’s dented.”

  Lizzie could feel Layne’s heat hovering over her. Even though her eyes were closed, she knew he was staring at her, trying to decide how to help without touching her and causing more pain. With Layne, she always knew what he was doing and thinking. And not in an we’ve-known-each-other-forever kind of way. It was an I’m-a-Seer-and-I-just-know-stuff kind of knowing. As long as Layne was within a few feet of her, she got a small reading off of him. Nothing big. Nothing that overpowered her. It was just enough to know exactly how much of the face he was showing the world was a lie. For exampl
e, right now he was trying to act like he didn’t give a crap, but on the inside he was freaking out that she was seriously hurt and wouldn’t be able to run when an opportunity arose for them to escape.

  Screw that. They were getting out of here, and she was doing it on her own two legs.

  Lizzie opened her eyes. The light was like a knife ramming through her eyeballs and into her brain, but she ignored the pain. As she expected, Layne’s face was a mask of sardonic boredom. It was one of the only two expressions he seemed physically capable of making. The other was of complete and utter annoyance. The annoyed one was real; the boredom one never was. She’d thought about blowing his apathetic cover more times than she could count, but bringing up the passionate feelings lying just under his skin would do more harm than good.

  So instead of reassuring him she was okay, she pulled herself up on her elbows and lifted an eyebrow until he got the point and moved back. It took more effort than she would have liked to get on her feet again, and there was one terrifyingly dizzy moment when she thought she might go crashing back down to the floor, but all that really mattered was she was standing again and didn’t require any help to get that way.

  Ignoring the freaked out looks of her captors, she made her way to the sitting area. The furniture consisted of a rose-printed couch poised on spindly wooden legs looking like they couldn’t hold up the weight of the couch itself, let alone more than one full-grown person; two ornate wooden chairs; and an oversized chair with upholstery a puke-like shade of green so worn many spots were bare. A collection of mismatched tables were scattered about and covered with various decorative clocks, none of which showed the same time or appeared to be in working order. The wooden chairs looked super-uncomfortable, but one of them was sitting away from the rest of the furniture, two tables stationed at its sides to prevent anyone from scooting closer. Lizzie planted herself in it, feeling no small sense of satisfaction at the look of annoyance on Alistair’s face.

  Alistair Halifax. It sounded like a character in one of her novels. He would be a wealthy rogue, the kind of man who flitted around from one discreet widow to another, never forming attachments until he had a run in with the sharp-tongued debutante who no one expected to make a good match thanks to family scandal and, horror of horrors, dark hair and tanned skin. The two would snip around each other, trading barbs until the sexual tension grew to the point they were flinging themselves at one another, all heaving bosoms and chiseled abdomens.

  If this were a novel, Lizzie would have been smitten with Alistair Halifax the moment he appeared on the page. He was attractive in an elegant sort of way with his lean waist and almost too perfect face. But more than physical appearance, it was the way he commanded attention as if it were his due. The stereotypical romance novel alpha male.

  But this wasn’t a romance novel, and Lizzie knew what a true alpha male really was. True alpha males didn’t kidnap people or employ thugs who would bash the back of their hands across the face of a teenage girl less than half their size. And true alpha males exuded a calm confidence, not the smug entitlement she got from Alistair.

  Alistair Halifax was not the hero of this story, but he thought he was, and that made Lizzie nervous. People who truly believed their actions were good when all signs pointed to the opposite were the scariest people of all.

  “Is there anything I can get for you? Perhaps a cool cloth? Or maybe some tea?” the villain in question asked, every ounce the proper English gentleman. “It’s probably been some time since you’ve eaten. I can have someone bring up some food if you wish.”

  Lizzie didn’t want to accept anything from him, but she had little choice in the matter. The last time she’d had anything to eat or drink was when she and Layne stopped at his grandparents’ house on their way to Camp Sk’elep, and that was… How long ago? The shaking of her hand and gnawing pain in her stomach said days.

  “Food would be nice. And some water.”

  Damn it. Why did she have to go and mention water? Now she was so parched she could hardly open her mouth. How long before a person died of dehydration? She and Layne had to be getting close. Although Layne didn’t look it at all. He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, elbows resting on his knees. She wondered briefly if Alistair and his crony were stupid enough to believe he was relaxed. Maybe they were. Maybe they would get comfortable and then Layne could leap up and tear their throats out with his bare hands.

  The morbid, violent thought should have startled her. She kept waiting for the voice in her head that abhorred confrontation to start yelling, but it seemed all parts of her were in agreement that this was the exact sort of dire situation where a deadly outburst from Layne would be welcome.

  At her request, Alistair nodded at Mack, who in turn disappeared through a side door Lizzie hadn’t noticed before. Through the wall she could hear muffled voices and the sound of cabinets opening, and then Mack was back with a tray of food. He sat it on one of the side tables and started to sit back down, but Alistair cleared his throat and threw a pointed glance at the tray. The look on Mack’s face as he handed Lizzie a glass of water and plate of fruit and cheese was filled with murderous thoughts.

  Despite being ravenous, Lizzie didn’t touch her food yet. She could hear the Alpha Female’s voice in her head. “Yeah, Lizzie. Go ahead and eat the food the nice kidnappers gave you. Being drugged or dead sounds like tons of fun, don’t you think?”

  The Alpha Female.

  Scout, can you hear me?

  Across from her, Layne made a big show of picking up each thing on his plate and sniffing like a hound dog. The show was for Alistair and Mack. Layne had the best nose in the Alpha Pack, which was the same as saying he had the best nose in the world. Even things advertised as odorless gave Layne fits. If Mack had tried to sneak something into their food or water, Layne would have known it the moment Mack handed him the plate.

  Scout, please. We need help.

  The Alpha Female was connected telepathically to every Seer in the world. Not every Seer could direct-dial in, but Lizzie could. Or at least she should have been able to, but the radio silence in her head said she wasn’t getting through.

  Oblivious to her most recent crisis, Layne finished smelling each and every thing on his plate, including the fork, and tossed a bite of cheese in his mouth. Lizzie quickly followed his lead, her hunger overpowering the panic building inside her. Maybe her brain battery was dead due to lack of food.

  Actually, that wasn’t the worst theory she’d ever had. It was entirely possible hunger, fear and exhaustion could be blocking her connection to Scout. Which meant she needed to eat, no matter how closed-off her throat might feel.

  The cheese was a little dry, but it was food, and therefore amazing. The water was room temperature and had a slight metallic taste, but she guzzled it down as if it was the nectar of the gods. As they ate, Alistair watched her. The slight upward tilt of his mouth was probably supposed to comfort her, but it did little to disguise the possessiveness in his gaze. Layne had asked him what he wanted with them, but Lizzie already knew. To him, they were tools. She didn’t know what kind of work he had in mind, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be optional. They would do whatever he wanted, and when they were no longer useful, he would discard them.

  Lizzie thought she might throw up the handful of grapes she’d just swallowed.

  “What do you want?” Lizzie asked. Her bet was on ransom money. The Alpha Pack controlled not millions, but billions of dollars. From the looks of the room they were in, whatever group Alistair and Mack were a part of once enjoyed their own heavily padded nest egg, but it was all gone now. They were probably hanging onto this house with its faded silk wallpaper, elegantly carved wood, and vaulted ceilings by the skin of their teeth.

  Alistair looked at her over the rim of the glass of water he had poured for himself. “I want your assistance.”

  That wasn’t quite what she was expecting.

  Layne leaned back, threw an arm over the back of the co
uch, and rested one ankle on the opposite knee, copying Alistair’s devil-may-care pose. “And how might we assist you?” His voice held a haughty laziness, accentuated by a soft British accent. If Alistair noticed Layne was mocking him, he didn’t show it.

  “You, Shifter, we have no use for,” Alistair said, turning in his chair, away from Layne. Giving a Shifter your back was an insult. It meant you didn’t find him a threat. From the smirk teasing the corners of Alistair’s mouth, Lizzie thought he knew exactly what he had done. “On the other hand,” he said, addressing Lizzie directly, “a person with your talents could be of great use to me and my cause.”

  Lizzie tucked her hands beneath her legs so no one could see how they were shaking. “Which cause is that exactly?”

  Before he could answer, the side door Mack had disappeared through to get their food swung open. A little girl came barreling through it, giggling as she sprinted into the middle of the room. The moment she saw the others, she froze, her big brown eyes opened wide and unblinking.

  “Caroline!” a woman called, running in after her. There was no doubt she was the girl’s mother. They had the same dark coloring, cat-like eyes, and ears that stuck out just a hair too far. She picked up the girl, who immediately buried her face in her mother’s neck. “I’m sorry, my lord,” the mother said to Alistair, covering her child’s head with one hand while repositioning her little body so she was no longer near him. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t watching her closely enough.”

  “That is fine, Pari. Mack and I were just about to leave. We have matters to attend to elsewhere.” Alistair’s voice had lost its formal eloquence. His words were terse as he lifted himself out of the chair he had been occupying. “I haven’t had a chance to familiarize our new guests with the particulars of their stay or show them around the accommodations. I trust you can do that for me?”