Shift of Destiny

by Carol Van Natta

  Wanting to believe and actually believing were two different things, however.

  Maybe she should start with the flashes. A quick peek through her fingers said they were still there. If they were a hallucination, she’d see them whether or not her eyes were closed, meaning they were real.

  Mr. Maxen had told her to quit trying so hard not to see what was in front of her.

  She let her hands drop and opened her eyes. The flashes seemed calmer, but their random pattern made her twitch, wanting to turn and look away, or to the side. Resolutely, she focused on the nearest object in front of her, the ornate but empty picture frame that had startled her the first time she’d walked through the workroom.

  Cautiously, she reached out and touched it. A hazy image began to form and solidified into a watercolor painting. The subject was still a fantasy winter scene of hunting wolves on the trail of a human figure in red and blue, but this time, the wolves were more plentiful and closer to their prey. Three winter-cloaked, crossbow-carrying hunters on galloping horses approached from the left. On the right, a huge, rough statue of a man cast a long shadow, with some sort of big, pale cat creature slinking around the side. A brass plate along the bottom of the picture frame proclaimed the picture’s title to be “Choices.” She let go of the picture frame, and the image faded, along with the title.

  To the left, a black-lacquered box seemed to glow, once she focused her attention on it. It didn’t invite her touch like the picture frame had. It felt like it was waiting for someone else, not her.

  Several thumps overhead reminded her that she was supposed to be finding the lights out back, not sightseeing in Mr. Maxen’s workshop. She shifted her focused gaze up to the back wall and located the switches she’d seen before. She made it several steps down the aisle of low shelves before the flashes started to bother her again. She focused on a candlestick with a candle made of fire that cast a warm glow. She kept her eyes on it for several more steps, then deliberately focused on the next item, a flat, stiletto knife that was about to fall off the shelf. When she pushed it back to safety, the knife seemed to fade a bit. When she grasped its hilt, the whole knife slowly faded from view, leaving only hints of the edges. The ultimate concealed weapon.

  By the time she made it to the back wall and the loading dock, the flashes had become less distracting. They were still there, but no longer made her flinch. They seemed more localized, too, as if she could almost figure out which objects were flashing. Maybe they were the magical equivalent of those motion-activated Halloween displays in stores that startled passing shoppers with a cheap sound effect.

  When she finally reached the bank of unlabeled switches, she tried them one by one and found three that didn’t change any of the lights in the workroom. Unfortunately, whoever created the workroom had removed all of the house’s back windows, so she couldn’t tell if she was turning on the outside lights or not.

  Chance had already turned off the alarm system to let Shepherd in, so it probably wouldn’t hurt to raise the loading dock door long enough to check. She opened the slider bar locks on either side, then lifted.

  No other lights illuminated the backyard beyond the threshold. She went back to the switches and flipped all three candidate switches, then stepped outside onto the loading dock. The back of the house and the driveway were now gratifyingly well lit. She looked up to the open windows above, but didn’t see either Chance or Shepherd.

  As she turned to go back in, she saw a glint of something on the ground, a few feet beyond the edge of the concrete. Someone had dropped a rectangular, pocket-sized mirror. She picked it up to take it inside. The back was old, oxidized brass with faint hints of old designs, long since worn away. The surface of the mirror was tinted gold, but her reflected face looked normal enough. She put it in the back pocket of her jeans, since T-shirt designers stupidly chose not to give women chest pockets.

  She jerked with sudden pain as something stung the back of her arm. “Yeow!” She lifted her arm to look, and saw little yellow feathers sticking out of her. Before she could move, something stung her thigh, and now it, too, sprouted yellow features. Tranquilizer darts.

  Witzer’s hunters had found her.

  She turned to run back inside, but slipped on the loose gravel and tripped on the edge of the concrete. She landed bruisingly hard on her hands and knees, but scrambled forward. Her arm and thigh already felt cold and numb.

  “Grab her!” The hissed words came from the left.

  She heard running footsteps. She opened her mouth to scream, only to have a large, rough hand clamp over her face and shove her onto her back. Something crunched under her and stabbed her butt. Her head thumped on the concrete, and she saw stars. She raised her knees and kicked out as hard as she could, connecting with ribs.

  “Fuck!” growled a man’s voice. She bit the hand that covered her mouth, causing him to swear again. He made a fist and punched her cheek and nose. Pain exploded in her face and her vision dimmed. The dark-bearded man above her bared his teeth like a predator.

  “Get her to the van and come back for me,” another man’s voice ordered. “I’ll take out anyone who comes looking for her.”

  The feral man smiled cruelly and drew his fist back to hit her again. She whimpered and tried to turn her head aside, but his knee was on her braid.

  “Stop that,” ordered the other man. “We need her alive. He’ll kill us if she’s hurt.”

  The bearded man shot a thin-lipped, frustrated glare at his unseen accomplice, then whipped out a large handkerchief from his pocket and tied it tightly around her head, forcing it into her mouth to gag her.

  He threw her over his shoulder and strode off toward the alley. The pressure on her diaphragm made it hard to breathe, and her sore nose bumped his back. The pain in her head made it hard to think. She felt blood dripping from her nose. She couldn’t call for Shepherd or Chance, or they’d get shot.

  The blood from her nose threatened to block her breathing. She snorted as forcefully as she could, spitefully glad she sprayed blood and snot all down the back of his leather vest.

  “Stay still, bitch, or I’ll give you another love tap,” growled her captor.

  “Can’t… breathe….” she managed between jarring steps that forced his shoulder into her stomach. She may as well have been talking to the white fence they were walking next to.

  A crazy thought burbled up to her increasingly foggy consciousness. If Shepherd and Chance were shifters, and if the fantasy novels got at least that part right, they’d be able to track her if she left a scent trail. She didn’t have any breadcrumbs, but she had blood.

  Her kidnapper slowed, and she heard the sound of a panel-van door sliding open. Using her good arm, she reached up and pinched her nose. It hurt like fire, but got her fingers good and bloody.

  “Hurry up,” ordered a muffled male voice from inside the van. “The timetable is moved up, and they’re all coming tonight. We’re only a couple of hours ahead of the main force. They already set up the temporary helipad.”

  As the bearded man shifted his weight, she stretched out her arm to grab the top of one of the white fence’s pickets, leaving a dark smear on it before she was wrenched forward, splinters needling into her palm. Her head hit the top of the van as he threw her onto the forward bench seat.

  “Oops,” he said sarcastically.

  Asshole. If she could ever afford to pay back her swear fund, she wouldn’t have to work for a year.

  “Oh my God, Richie, is she dead?” asked a muffled male voice. She slitted her eyes open to see a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a full winter facemask. He looked like a convenience store robber on vacation.

  “Nah, just dopey from the darts and bleeding a little. Bitches always need obedience lessons.” Before she knew what was happening, Richie zip-tied her hands in front of her, then her ankles. “Let’s get Adam before he shoots himself and get out of here.”

  The face-masked man scrambled up to the front. Richie’s gaze stra
yed to her crotch, then upward. He licked his lips as he lingered on her breasts. He shot a furtive glance toward the masked driver, who’s attention was elsewhere, and forced her head to the side and leaned down to lick her exposed neck.

  She shuddered in revulsion. He reared back with a disgusted snarl. “Fucking hell.” He wiped off his tongue with the sleeve of his black T-shirt. “You taste like a goddamn cat.” She sent silent, grateful thanks to snuggly little Pandora.

  The van started moving. Richie shoved her legs out of the way and sat on the edge of the seat, facing the open van door.

  The van seat smelled new, like maybe it was a rental. She surreptitiously turned on her side to face the back cushion and slid her bloody hand into the fold of the seat, hoping she was leaving enough forensic evidence for the police… and maybe the sharper senses of shifters. She’d even take vampires. She really wanted Chance’s version of the world to be true.

  Her fingers brushed what felt like a wadded paper napkin. While Richie’s back was still turned, she gritted her teeth around her gag and deliberately bumped her nose on the seat again, to keep the blood flowing. Her eyes watered involuntarily with the agony of keeping quiet. She eased out the tissue and got it good and wet with her blood, then shoved it back between the cushions.

  A cold wave of dizziness washed over her. The overhead light dimmed with her vision.

  “Where is he?” asked the driver. “If he’s pretending this is a game of Ageless Assassin, I’ll kill him.”

  “Pull into the driveway,” said Richie, sounding exasperated. “I’ll go find him.” He started to leave, then turned back to look at her. He plucked the yellow-feathered dart out of her thigh and the back of her arm and dropped them on the floor. “Check her pockets.” He snorted. “Don’t want her butt-dialing anyone.” Richie launched himself out of the open van door.

  Sleepiness eroded her consciousness for long moments.

  The van rocked as two men scrambled in and slid the door closed, but she felt too sluggish to turn and look.

  “Go, but slow,” said Richie. “Don’t turn on the lights until we get to the street. And take off those fucking ski-masks. Both of you.”

  She was glad elderly Mr. Maxen was out of town, out of harm’s way.

  Maybe once Witzer had her, he’d call off the invasion. Otherwise, the quaint, sleepy little town of Kotoyeesinay wouldn’t know what hit it.

  She hoped with all her heart that Witzer’s goons couldn’t find Chance and Shepherd. The last thing she saw was a too-bright reflection on the chrome trim of the overhead light as everything faded to black.

  7

  Chance and Shepherd turned down the narrow alley that led to the now well-lit back entrance of Turn of the Cards. Chance carried the front end of the fifteen-foot steel I-beam, leading the way. Shepherd, with mixed heritage of ogre and bogeyman, could have easily carried it by himself, but he couldn’t see well enough at night to avoid taking out fences, shrubs, or spruce trees.

  Finally, they reached the driveway. “Let’s set it here,” said Chance.

  Even with borrowing strength from his beast, he was feeling the strain of having carried the heavy beam for four blocks, which was the closest Shepherd could find to park his long truck. They set the beam carefully on the edge of the driveway, next to the rocky strip of the garden. Chance took off his work gloves and shook his hands and shoulders, noting that Moira had left the loading dock door up for them.

  “You’re stronger than you look,” commented Shepherd. “What’s your animal, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Chance usually dodged the question, but Shepherd was the closest thing he had to a friend in town. “I don’t know, exactly. I’m not a Florida red wolf or a Canadian white cougar, like my parents.”

  Shepherd nodded. “Oh, a mix, like me. You smell like cat or something.”

  “Or something,” agreed Chance. He pointed to the roll-off bin Shepherd had dropped off. “Let’s move this into position while we’re here.”

  Chance watched as Shepherd lifted the bin like it weighed fifty pounds instead of five hundred and placed it a few feet out from the side of the house. Something glinted on the loading dock, and he stepped up to investigate. It was a piece of broken mirror.

  As he picked it up, a wave of Moira’s magic tickled his senses for a moment, then settled around him like a cloak. He looked around and up, but didn’t see her. He liked the feel of her magic on him, and remembered his father, long ago, saying something similar about the feel of his mother’s magic. Chance hoped they could find someone to teach Moira to use her talents. He planned to buy her a mirror as a mating gift, because he’d noticed she had an affinity for them.

  An errant breeze brought the sour whiff of wolf and unknown human. It had to have been recent, because scents died quickly in the windy, dry summer. Known wolves made Chance’s beast wary; unknown wolves made it downright surly. Chance stepped closer to and past the gaping doorway, to see if he could smell it again.

  He did, and something far worse. The wolf was ill, and tangled with the wolf’s stench was Moira’s scent, and a splash of blood. He crouched to wipe it up with his finger, then sniffed it. Human. He touched it to his tongue, memorizing the taste and scent so he could track it. His beast snarled inside, sure that it was Moira’s. Whoever had drawn her blood was a dead wolf walking.

  “Why are you growling?” asked Shepherd.

  “I think Moira’s in trouble.” He fought his rising beast and clung to his humanity. He needed his ability to talk to get their mate back. “She told me a guy named Witzer was after her, and he sounded like a collector. I thought the town’s reputation would keep him away.”

  Shepherd’s normally genial expression turned darkly thunderous. “You go.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll call the sheriff and the council.”

  Chance cast about for Moira’s scent and found it, then followed his nose to the alley. Two more drops of blood, then a larger, finer spatter. The scents ended in a scent cloud of engine exhaust, and where a bloody handprint—undoubtedly Moira’s from the size and scent—marred a picket of a waist-high white fence. He ran back to Shepherd.

  “She’s in a vehicle with two human males and an unknown male wolf-shifter who smells of rot. Scent is fresh. We just missed her by ten or fifteen minutes.” He pointed toward the alley. “They went northwest, or we’d have seen them.”

  Shepherd repeated the information into his phone as Chance went back into the well-warded workroom, in case he missed a clue. He ignored the tantalizing magic from dozens of talismans and devices, and focused on using his beast’s unrivaled sense of smell. She’d touched several items, but her scent was strongest on the hilt of a flat crystal stiletto that turned transparent when he touched it.

  Chance wanted to shift and track, but long experience with unusual occurrences told him he needed to be prepared for more than just a headlong pursuit. He ran quickly up the stairs for his vest and tools, nearly tripping over Moira’s backpack. Its presence allayed the tiny worry in the back of his mind that she’d left on her own, but it confirmed his greater fear that she hadn’t left willingly. The backpack was her lifeline.

  He scooped it into his arms as he clattered down the stairs and out the back again.

  Shepherd told him the sheriff was out of town, but Deputy Shiloh was mobilizing the Kotoyeesinay Search and Rescue team of witches and winged shifters to help in the hunt.

  “Can you feel each other through your mate bond?” asked Shepherd.

  “We’re not mated.” He ground his teeth in frustration. “She doesn’t believe in her own magic, or know what I am, or what you are, or any of this.” He paced back and forth, fighting his urge to shift. “I was trying to show her a bit at a time.”

  Shepherd’s phone rang and he answered it. Chance moved closer so he could hear everything.

  “A Jeep passed the town limit, headed north on Trapper Road, then turned on the west ridge trail. It’s a maze up in there, near the hot springs.”<
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  Chance shoved his shoulder through one of the straps of Moira’s backpack, then picked up his bag of tools. “I know some of the terrain. I’m going in. Tell them not to zap me.”

  “I’m no good for tracking,” said Shepherd. “I’ll stay in town.”

  Chance dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, which he thrust into Shepherd’s ham-sized hand. “Before you go, call Iolo Maxen and ask him how to set the alarms.” He saluted Shepherd, then took off at a run toward his truck.

  Chance pushed his truck hard on the dry ruts of the dirt road that led to the ridge area, but it still felt slow. He hoped the kidnappers’ Jeep had similar limitations. He’d checked in with Shepherd right before he left the range of the town’s cell towers. Some incident with tourists in the town was tying up some of the search team, but they’d be there as soon as they could.

  In between berating himself for leaving his mate unprotected and for taking her security for granted, he considered his options. Moira’s kidnappers undoubtedly had weapons, teams, and directions to their destination, which was more than he had. On the other hand, the wolf that took her was sick with something. Chance had his beast, and the element of surprise. His dark truck would be hard to see, especially since he’d been borrowing his beast’s night vision and driving with his lights off.

  At every fork and turnoff from the windy road, he had to stop and scent, and hope to hell no one else was around to muck up the trail. At the end of the third switchback, where a steep trail went upward, his nose told him the Jeep had lingered and gone no further. One of the men and the dead wolf walking had taken his mate up the trail. Somehow, he’d missed the Jeep going back down, but it could have taken an off-road trail. He couldn’t worry about that now. He had to find Moira. He spent precious minutes turning his truck around and hiding it under a scraggly pine that clung to the steep mountainside. He dragged a dark green canvas tarp out of the back tool locker and draped it over the hood and front grill, to reduce the chance of a reflection giving away the truck’s presence.