Buch lesen: «Taken»

He didn’t know how to say it more clearly: she was his …

Arousal was flowing through his body, and her fear dragged sharp claws over his skin.

“Calm down,” he managed, in a voice that had precious little humanity left in it.

She quieted, her breath hitching as she tried to swallow the tears. And she stopped struggling, which was good. Except that he still wanted to press against her, despite the irritating layers of cloth in the way. She was sweating, he could taste it, and the urge to press his face against her throat and lick his tongue delicately against her bare skin to taste it even further made a fine tremor run through the center of his bones.

Fur receded. The claws prickling out through his fingertips receded, as well. He won the battle with himself by bare inches, and the animal retreated snarling back down to the floor of his mind, curling up and promising trouble later …

About the Author

LILITH SAINTCROW was born in New Mexico, bounced around the world as an Air Force brat, and fell in love with writing at the tender age of nine. She is the author of the Dante Valentine and Jill Kismet series, as well as the bestselling author of the Strange Angels YA series, which she wrote under the name Lili St. Crow. She lives in Vancouver, Washington, with two children, three cats and assorted other strays. Please check out her website at www.lilithsaintcrow.com/journal.

Dear Reader,

I always wanted to write a story where the were-creatures weren’t wolves or big cats. Which presented an interesting dilemma, until one morning when the hero of Taken sauntered onstage and started telling me his story. Characters. They always act like they own the place.

Anyway, I had a great deal of fun writing this. I hope it’s good for you, too …

Lilith Saintcrow

Taken
Lilith Saintcrow

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mel Sterling,

best friend and beta reader.

Chapter 1

“Half my ass is hanging out.” Sophie tugged on the skirt’s hem. There was nothing like wearing your friend’s clothes to remind you of your shortcomings. “I’m, what, only an inch taller than you?”

“Oh, you look fine.” Lucy swept her short, sleek dark hair back, blotting her lipstick. Luce even lit a cigarette before opening her door, the brief flare of the lighter painting her face with gold. “You look hot. Why don’t you ever loosen up and wear a miniskirt?”

“I wear appropriate attire for my job.” Sophie pushed her glasses up, wishing her curls weren’t falling in her eyes. Lucy insisted she leave her hair down. The car was nice and warm, so the touch of cold wind on her bare legs was shocking when she stepped out. She pulled the back of the skirt down one more time and wished she’d just worn jeans. Jeans covered up a lot. “There’s a dress code, you know.” And I don’t have anything else in my closet. Food first, clothes later, that’s the rule.

Luce was already tapping her foot, eager to be off down the cracked sidewalk. “Oh, please. Margo the Battle-Ax wears scrubs all day. You could, too, you know.” She’d squeezed into a short evening-blue silk sheath that showed off her ample curves, and her legs looked long and beautiful in a pair of fishnets, ending in a lovely pair of glittering silver heels.

Heels, for a night of dancing? Well, Lucy had more endurance than Sophie did in a lot of areas. Sophie could stay, have a drink, watch everyone making fools of themselves, then catch a cab home.

Though cabs were expensive.

Lucy slid her arm through Sophie’s. “Besides, you need to put your toesies in the dating pool again, sweetheart. It’s been six months since the decree came through. You’re a free woman.”

A free woman. I wish someone would tell Mark that. “I guess so.”

“You guess so? Come on, Soph.”

“Okay, okay. I’m a free woman.” As long as he can’t find where I live. Stop worrying so much, dammit! But that was like telling herself to stop breathing. And good God, but she had no intention of ever dipping a toe—or any other appendage—in the dating pool ever again.

Once was enough.

The street pulsed with neon. Here on Broadway, Jericho City’s nightclubs were all clustered for warmth, a long row of them on either side of a square bounded by leafless trees and trellises with strings of decorative all-weather lights woven into them. A chill wind came up Fifth Avenue and teased at Sophie’s bare legs. Her back was already aching from the low black heels Lucy had talked her into, a familiar pain she put up with during the week but could have happily done without on a weekend. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Because I need to practice my lambada, and it won’t hurt you to get out from under all those books,” Lucy said sharply.

Thank God for you, Luce. Sophie straightened her shirt. Well, maybe shirt was an ambitious word for a silk spaghetti-strapped tank top that showed a slice of midriff. This was Lucy’s, too. Sophie didn’t have anything that satisfied Lucy’s exacting standards for a night out.

She had precious few clothes at all, and was sneakingly glad her best friend had rolled right over the top of her objections and squeezed her into something she didn’t have to buy or wash. Luce wasn’t always the soul of tact, but she almost never referred to Sophie’s situation—except to note that Mark had been a bastard, and to lament that Sophie hadn’t taken him to the cleaners.

“I’m having one drink, and I’ll stay to drive you home. Okay? That means that we have to leave at a reasonable hour.” Which would solve the whole problem of getting a cab, too.

I want to get some sleep this weekend. And I have rent due. Jeez, I can’t even afford to go on a drinking binge.

“Reasonable?” Lucy’s laugh belled out again. “What the hell? Who’s reasonable on a Friday night, out on the town with a hot babe? Live a little, honey.”

Luce thought “safety” and “reliability” were highly overrated. It was one of the things Sophie loved about her—and the same thing that drove her to tooth-grinding distraction.

Still, Lucy was a good friend. And she never asked questions, even when Sophie had showed up at her door, bruised and bleeding, terrified and—

That’s an Unpleasant Thing. Don’t think about it. “Seriously, Lucy. I have stuff to do this weekend.” Like sleep. And figure out next month’s budget. If they don’t give me some overtime I don’t know how I’ll make it.

“For Chrissake. Don’t think about that. Think about how good you look right now.” They reached the entrance to the Paintbox. Pounding music spilled out, neon lights flickering, cigarette smoke and sweat exhaling into the cold.

The night was chill, but Sophie’s heart was already galloping along uncomfortably hard. It was strange to be out in public at night. And unsettling. The sky was too big, and there were too many people to keep track of.

Sophie kept breathing. The therapy books all said deep breathing was key. You couldn’t control a lot of things, but you could control your breathing.

On Friday nights, if you paid ten dollars, you got to go into every club and bar on Broadway Square without a door fee—and get a free drink in most of them. It wasn’t worth a whole roll of laundry quarters, to Sophie’s mind. And the thought of so many people clustering around her made her a little sick. Just keep breathing, she told herself.

“God, Soph, you’re divorced, not dead. Come on.”

I’m wondering if one is analogous to the other, really. She dropped Lucy’s keys in the teensy plastic-jeweled purse at her hip. Lucy pulled Sophie through the door into blessed muggy warmth full of pounding bass played way too loud to be healthy. The bouncer wolf-whistled; Luce swished her hips in response and laughed.

This is going to be trouble. Sophie sighed, but the sound was lost under the music. What the hell, right? Lucy was just being a good friend. The only friend she had left, really, since the others had fallen away one way or another during the first year of her marriage to an egotistical bastard. Stop thinking, she told herself as Lucy actually hopped with excitement, aiming straight for the crush of people around the bar. The Paintbox’s major attraction was its dance floor, blocks of light in the floor turning different colors in time to the beat. The place was packed and only going to get more so. Sophie kept her arm carefully over the tiny jeweled purse, borrowed from Lucy—just big enough for ID, keys, cash, and a tube of pale-pink lip gloss—and let her friend tug her along. That’s an Unpleasant Thing, and it’s in the Past. Leave it there, for God’s sake. Look at how hard Lucy’s trying.

She plastered a smile on her face and followed her friend, wincing every time the music hit the decibel level right before “jet takeoff.”

This is going to be a long night.

Chapter 2

“Now, all of you behave.” Kyle’s eyes glittered with a random reflection of silver, catching the glow of a streetlamp. “This is for food and supplies. We can’t afford another incident.”

“Aw.” Julia rubbed at her forehead, her long dark hair falling forward over her shoulders. The pale streak at her temple, just beginning to grow in, glowed dully. “Can’t we have a little fun?”

Fun is one thing. Almost eviscerating a man because he’s patted your ass is another. “Kyle says to behave.” Zach looked back from the front passenger’s seat of the blue minivan.

“That means behave.” His tone was soft, but the windows in the van rattled.

“Sure.” Julia ducked her head to the side. So did Brun, mimicking her submissive posture. “You got it, big brother. Behave.” She made a low, soft sound, the please-don’t-rip-my-throat-out-I’ll-be-good sound. Zach’s nostrils flared. She was overacting just enough to be sarcastic, and her pheromone wash was spiked with thinly veiled aggression.

“We can have fun just fine without blood,” Kyle said. His hair stood up in soft spikes. “We’re Carcajou. Eric?”

“No blood,” Eric said from the backseat, his bitten leather jacket creaking. “Brun?”

“No blood,” Brun said, his light tenor almost piping. “We’re not savages.”

“Good.” Kyle took the keys out of the ignition. “Everyone’s dressed?”

“Quit fussing.” Julia tossed her head impatiently. “Let’s just go. I’m hungry.” She was whining a little, already. Brun rubbed at her nape, and she shoved her twin’s hand irritably away.

It’s not her fault, Zach told himself. She was young, barely past her first Change, and a spoiled brat to boot. Kyle pretty much allowed her to run wild, because she was the only female in the Family. It was his call … but she was getting harder and harder to control.

You’re not the alpha, either. It’s not your job. Zach settled himself, one boot on the dashboard, and waited. He wouldn’t move until his little brother did. Ky stared out the windshield, the glass beginning to fog up with five healthy young animals breathing inside. Little brother was wearing his scruffy face today, a shadow of stubble across his cheeks, the circles under his coal-dark eyes attractive instead of worn down. Women liked him with a little bit of rough on; otherwise, Ky was too pretty.

Better to be tough than pretty, Zach reminded himself for the thousandth time. He studied his boot toes, ran over the situation again inside his head. They needed cash, and the kids needed to bleed off some energy. It was dangerous, especially with the young ones in such a state.

He’d almost talked Kyle into letting him and Eric do it alone. They had the quickest fingers and the best control of their tempers. But Kyle didn’t want to be left home to babysit, and he especially didn’t want them separated if Julia had another one of her fits. It took a lot to control her sometimes, and Zach was the best at it.

Though sometimes he wished Kyle wouldn’t always take the easiest way out.

But thoughts like that were dangerous. They were the thoughts of someone who was about to challenge the alpha, and Zach had made up his mind. No challenging Kyle, that was the rule.

It had been the rule ever since the night of the fire, when Zach held his little brother back from plunging into the flames.

“All right,” Kyle said. It was the signal, and they got moving.

It was an autumn night full of rattling naked branches and the faint smell of dry-cinnamon leaves. The sound of thumping bass was clearly audible, running under the concrete like a pulse in the throat of sweating prey, and Zach breathed deep, rolling the cold air over his tongue. There was danger on the wind tonight, and it wasn’t just the danger of starvation haunting their little Family.

The beast in the floor of his mind stirred restlessly. Instinct blossomed into certainty. Something’s gonna happen.

“I don’t like this,” he murmured. Kyle paused as the others preceded them—slim dark Julia, Brun trailing in her wake as usual, Eric hunching his shoulders and glancing from side to side warily. “It smells odd.”

Kyle agreed silently, his chin dipping in the facsimile of a nod. “Wish we had a shaman.”

You and me both. We could settle down if we had one. And Zach wouldn’t be half so tempted to do something drastic.

But resisting temptation was getting to be his middle name. “I’ll keep an eye on Julia.” I’m such a diplomat.

The half-blind, animal part of him raised its head, interested in a thread of scent. Brunette and young, tantalizing in its evanescence. Hmm. Wonder who that is. Smells interesting.

“Good. We can blow town if we get enough tonight.” Kyle glanced up at him, as if Zach was the alpha. “South, I’m thinking.”

Nice and warm. Easy pickings, too, if we just stay under the radar. “Sounds like a good idea.” Except we’re traveling blind, without a shaman. Nobody to throw the bones, and Julia’s unstable. She’s too headstrong. She should marry into another Tribe, if we can find a male strong enough.

But good luck finding a mate for her without a shaman. Good luck finding anything. None of the other Tribes would so much as give them the time of day if they didn’t have a shaman of their own. Not even the Tanuki would talk to them, and Tanuki were some of the most gregarious around.

He sighed, a cloud of breath hanging in the cold air, and Kyle gave him another one of those odd sidelong glances. Quit looking at me that way. You’re the alpha, I’m the second—that’s the way it’s going to stay. God, I wish Dad was here.

“You’ve got the quickest fingers,” Kyle finally said. “You take point tonight.”

Zach nodded. “By this time tomorrow we’ll be driving toward orange groves and white-sand beaches.” And still running one step ahead of disaster.

Chapter 3

She meant to have fun. Really, she did. But the gin and tonic was watered down, the dance floor was so crowded she’d gotten elbowed and damn near molested in the five minutes she’d spent on the floor, and the pumping, throbbing music was going straight through her head with glass spikes.

Great. All I need is a migraine. Why can’t I enjoy myself like everyone else?

Lucy was having a fine time, shaking her thang on the dance floor with a guy who looked like the epitome of Latin Lover, right down to the poufy white shirt. She looked good, and the guy was leaning in, talking in her ear or nibbling. They were rubbing hips, and Lucy had her hands up in the air, abandoned to the dance in a way Sophie couldn’t even dream of being.

I was like that once, though, wasn’t I? She couldn’t remember. Instead, the image of copper-bottomed pans hanging over a kitchen island rose up, their bright shapes moving slightly, and a cold rill of fear slid up her back. A half-guilty glance around showed nothing out of the ordinary.

Still jumping at shadows. She couldn’t even remember what it felt like to dance without being afraid. And her nerves tingled, whether it was from weak gin or the infrequent pins-and-needles feeling that meant something bad was about to happen.

Those pins and needles had saved her from a car crash once. Or, at least, she firmly believed so. The feeling had made her sit at a four-way stop until a car zoomed through the intersection, not even pausing. Whether the driver was drunk or just careless didn’t matter.

The trouble was, that feeling would never warn her when she was, say, about to marry a man who thought “wife” meant “slave.” Or “punching bag.”

Sophie sighed. She could have left her glasses in the car, making the world into a soft fuzz much easier to deal with, but then she’d be half-blind. She probably should have left them, this was just the sort of crowd who would accidentally knock them off her face and step on them, and there went two hundred bucks’ worth of frames she couldn’t afford to lose. They were cute, yeah, and they didn’t require the care and expense contacts did.

I’m all new now. Except the inside, where I’m the same old Sophie. Scared of my own shadow. She took another gulp of gin and tonic, and someone bumped into her from behind. The drink slopped, splashing, and cold liquid landed on her cleavage. The pins and needles swept over her skin and retreated.

Sophie sucked in a breath, nearly choked, and looked up as the person bumping her settled against the bar less than a foot away.

Oh, wow.

He was tall, and dark, and rough-looking, stubble crawling on his cheeks under high arched cheekbones. His mouth was a little too thin, as was his nose, but his eyes—so dark pupil blended into iris in the uncertain light—were nice. And the shelf of dark hair falling stubbornly across them looked like it was just waiting for fingers to smooth it back. A streak of pale blondness winging back from his temple should have looked ridiculous, but didn’t.

Hello, stranger. Sophie quickly looked back down at her drink. Lucy would have grinned at him and said something witty. Jeez. I’m such an idiot.

“Sorry about that,” he almost-yelled in her ear, easily heard over the music. His breath touched her hair, and a bolt of heat went through her. It was the closest she’d been to a man since … oh, two months before she filed for divorce?

The tingling feeling had gone away. It was probably just the weak gin.

“No problem.” She pitched her voice loud enough to be heard, as well, but yelled into her drink. Being this close to anyone made her nervous. And he was big. The physical size meant danger, and she nervously checked where his hands were with quick little peripheral glances.

You can’t tar everyone with the same brush, she told herself for at least the five thousandth time. Not all men are like that.

The sense of someone breathing on her didn’t go away, and she slid to the side, bumping a tanned woman in a white dress. Too many people in here. I’m going to suffocate. Her gaze swung up, and she found the man looking at her again. A drink had appeared in front of him, and he handed the harried bartender a ten without looking. Black T-shirt, jeans, a belt with an oddly shaped silver buckle.

He was standing too close, too. It was packed three-deep here at the bar, but he was still way inside her personal space.

Like, leaning in so far they were almost rubbing noses. A breath of male scent, some musky cologne, enfolded her.

Her heart gave a nasty, nervous thumping leap. Jesus! Sophie flinched back, dropped her gin and tonic on the bar, and retreated. The glass turned over, sending a tide of watered alcohol across the polished plastic, and a flash of terrified guilt burst reflexively under her rib cage.

Stupid. You’re stupid. Mark’s voice hissed inside her head, and she made it to the dance floor, going up on her toes to look for Lucy. She pushed her glasses up, and hoped they wouldn’t get smudged. That would just cap everything.

Dammit, Lucy. Where have you gone now? But her friend was nowhere in sight. Sophie canvassed the whole dance floor, glanced at the emergency exit, and decided that was silly. Lucy wasn’t at the bar, either—and it wasn’t like her to vanish completely.

Her heart was pounding like it intended to explode, and her breath came short and fast as she checked the ladies’ room and found no Lucy.

Don’t have a panic attack now. Luce wouldn’t bail on you.

But, oh, her body wouldn’t listen. It was bracing itself for something terrible.

Outside, the night was clear and cold, and the wind brushed the back of her sweating legs. It was too hot inside the club, and hypothermic outside. What a choice. Her glasses fogged briefly and cleared. Her breathing eased a little, and the tight knot of squirming panic inside her dialed back a little bit.

There was a group of smokers in a knot around a parking meter, all laughing easily. One of them was a college-age boy, doing some sort of jig to the beat coming through the walls for the enjoyment of his buddies.

But no sleek dark head or jingle of gold bracelets. Sophie stood, irresolute, on the pavement, and someone bumped into her from behind.

She thought it was Lucy, and turned around, opening her mouth to scold her. Instead, her jaw dropped even farther as she looked up—and up … he was at least six feet tall—at the man who had jostled her at the bar.

Oh, for Christ’s sake. “Watch where you’re going,” Sophie snapped, and took two nervous, skipping steps back. Leave me alone. Go away.

“Sorry.” He smiled, showing incredibly white teeth, but the expression was like a grimace. “You okay?”

She didn’t have to reply. A scream punched the night, a high feminine note cut sharply off the moment it reached full-throated terror, and Sophie almost leaped out of her skin.

I know that voice! She was already moving, her heart hammering and her heels clattering. The bouncer at the Paintbox’s door had his head up, staring down the street as if trying to figure out where the sound had come from.

“Lucy!” she yelled, and paused for the barest moment before plunging into the alley. “Lucy!”

The alley ended on a blank brick wall, and there was a crumpled pale shape moving weakly in the gloom. A hand closed around her naked upper arm, hot fingers like steel bands driving in. Whoever had Sophie’s arm yanked her back as another shape—slim, male, with a blotch of blackness down its white shirt—looked up from its crouch, eyes running with crimson hellfire and darkness smeared across its lips.

Sophie screamed as the hand on her arm pulled her farther back. Another slice of golden light opened up, and slim graceful bodies piled through, crouching and leaping. They swarmed the thing with the red-gleaming eyes, and Sophie’s legs turned to noodles. She sagged, the hand on her arm the only thing keeping her upright, and when the iron fingers loosened she actually fell, the shock of her knees meeting filthy concrete jarring up through her hips and shoulders.

The pale, weakly moving shape on the ground wore Lucy’s face, and it was gasping, rattling breaths drawn in. Its throat bubbled and gaped, and as Sophie stared, it stopped moving—and the thing in the white shirt, snarling, turned away from the back of the alley and lunged for her.