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.

Chapter 4

It shouldn’t have happened.

They’d hunted upir before, of course, while the old alpha was alive. But the farm had burned, their sleeping shaman and alpha dead in the flames, and now they were on their own, scrabbling to survive. They had cut both Tribe and upir a wide berth since.

And Zach shouldn’t have followed her, but she smelled too good to be true. Brunette, yes. Human, which was all right but not exactly appetizing. But young, female, warm—and with an edge of moonlight and snow, something cold and crystalline. Zach hadn’t smelled that in forever, and certainly not with the tantalizing musk of something that belonged to him overlaying it.

He’d leaned close and gotten a good lungful, and she was probably what he thought she was, which made it incredibly lucky, and incredibly—

But she’d flinched away as if she knew what he was, and searched the inside of the nightclub as if she’d lost her purse. She hadn’t; he’d kept his fingers well away from it, despite fleecing at least four people at the bar while he watched her. Pale skin and pale eyes. Nice hips, a glory of curling sandalwood hair, a pair of cute little steel-rimmed librarian glasses, and that ridiculous purse she kept clutching. She’d walked right out the front door while he was still cutting across the dance floor, harvesting another few wallets and emptying them by touch. It was almost too easy when you had the training and quicker-than-human reflexes. The rest of them had been working the crowd, Julia concentrating on businessmen and Brun sliding through knots of college boys with fat rolls to spend on killing their livers. Those fat rolls would keep the Family fed and moving.

But here, in the alley behind the nightclub, the smell of blood drenched the air, plucking at the beast in his bones. Zach yanked her back as the upir snarled, and the emergency door flew open, smacking against the brickwork so hard dust puffed out. Kyle was first through, his head up and nostrils flared, the Change rippling under his skin, and he leaped for the upir without pausing.

Oh, holy shit, no! Kyle shouldn’t be doing that, even if he was the alpha; he could get not just hurt but unzipped.

Kyle just hesitated too much.

The woman fell as he let go of her. He promptly shelved her as a problem to solve later and leaped, a fraction of a second slower than Kyle—who met the upir with a bone-shattering crunch, driving it sideways and down as it twisted and snarled. It had a white, loose shirt on, and was probably rabid if the just-spilled blood painting its front was any indication.

Not that the bloodsuckers needed much inducement to get really savage. But if an upir was hunting here, going after all the healthy young ones under bright lights and in the middle of crowds, it was either a baby, which was all right—or too burnsick for them to handle.

Snapping, growling, making a hell of a lot of noise, Kyle feinted and Zach’s bones made crackling sounds as the Change touched him, too, running through his body like fire. The animal in him snarled, lifted its head, and clawed at the blind-root thing in front of it, the enemy who twisted like a snake and spat, slashing with hands turned to shovel-shaped claws. If he could just hold it long enough, it would make a mistake and he would get it safely put down before it hurt any of the others. And before it made any more noise to attract witnesses.

But Julia was suddenly there, too, crowding her brothers aside as she let out a chilling glass-throated howl. The fight tipped and shifted, the upir kicked and slashed again. Kyle backhanded his sister, throwing her out of the way—and catching the claws meant for her, full across his unprotected belly.

Blood burst again. The smell of it, loaded with the terrible reek of a gutshot, smacked Zach across the face. He descended into the red welter of combat, the animal in him roaring, and didn’t care that there would be witnesses.

The upir died, shredded and shrieking, the rot of its last exhale throttling the alleyway. Zach landed, foul liquid staining his fingers, and his bones crackled again as he looked for more to kill.

They pressed against him, those of his kind, and a thread of scent tried to cut through the reek of death and decay. It was a reminder, something he had to attend to, some problem his human side had to solve.

The animal didn’t care. It smelled food, and blood, and suffering, and it wanted revenge and hot meat, bones cracking between its teeth.

“Zach—” someone said, a word that had no meaning.

He thumped back into himself as the Change receded. Julia was sobbing, as openly and messily as a child, and sirens pierced the night with diamond stitchery. There was other noise, too—people, crowding around.

The instinct of hiding among prey all his life prodded him. The upir was dead, and he had to get his Family out of here before they were seen, or, God forbid, caught. A Carcajou couldn’t be held for long, but if other Tribes caught wind of their presence after this, it could get ugly.

You mean uglier than this? The Change trembled inside his bones, spikes of pain.

“Zach,” Brun whispered again. It was the sound of a child in a nightmare.

The upir’s body was already just a stinking sludge inside a sodden white shirt and the ragged remains of a pair of leather pants, a pair of boots full of nasty black liquid falling over, skooshing out in a tide of corruption over Kyle’s half-Changed body. Fur receded into his little brother’s skin, his entrails a mass of grayish-blue tangled in a spill, the jet of blood from the abdominal aorta’s cutting black as the upir’s leaking.

His corpse would be fully human—what parts of it the upir’s caustic sludge didn’t eat away.

Another alpha, dead. Zach’s stomach cramped. He hadn’t eaten yet tonight, and the smell was enough to make him glad. My fault again, I should have—

“Come on.” Eric pulled at his arm. “We have to go.”

Where is she? He glanced around, but the woman he’d followed here was gone. A crowd of people had magically appeared—prey, his animal side whispered, casting around for that thread of light brunette scent that he somehow knew.

She was nowhere in sight. He had to find her.

What the hell is going—

“Come on!” Eric yelled, and dragged at his arm. Julia let out a keening sound, and it was like a jolt of fresh bloodscent, jarring him into alertness. He showed his teeth, still searching for the woman, and he and his Family leaped, Julia catching a high-hung fire-escape ladder and bolting, Brun right behind her, Eric using the full measure of his strength and speed to hop onto a Dumpster’s top and land behind the knot of people who had somehow clustered in the bottleneck of the alley. Their surprise echoed off the brick walls.

“Did you see—”

“Holy shit!”

“Jesus!”

Zach’s throat ached, denied another growl and the hunting cry. We are Carcajou, and you are our prey. But not right now. Not when there’s likely another predator around.

He moved among them like a cold wind, quick fingers plucking, and grabbed a few more wallets as he did. They would see only a blur, and the instinct to grab what he could was very close to the surface. Along with other instincts—like the urge to rip through flesh instead of clothing, to spill blood instead of cash.

A few feet clear of the alley he paused, because he smelled her again, very close.

The animal in him snarled. Two drives, possession and revenge, were forcing it to run in circles—and thankfully, giving him enough room to reassert control. Kyle. Goddammit, why? You should have waited, we could have baited and trapped it, and we could have killed it together. And kept Julia out of it. The howling hit, Julia’s voice lifted in a paroxysm of grief, and he had to go. She was likely to hurt herself or someone else, and he was the only one who could control her when she got like this.

But he had to find that woman. She smelled like ice and moonlight, like salvation.

She smelled like a shaman potential.

The scent drifted across his sensitive nose again. He glanced down the alley again—more people were crowding, spilling out of the emergency exits and pressing into the confined space, most with cell phones out.

Stupid herd animals. He could probably scare them, scatter them like the bleating sheep they were.

But the scent of her, close and sweating, filled his nose. He drew in a deep lungful and took off at a lope.

Christ, Kyle, why didn’t you wait? But he knew why. His little brother had taken on the responsibility of an alpha—first into battle to defend his own.

And it was Zach’s fault.

Chapter 5

Her heels hit the cracked pavement with a clattering tattoo, and she didn’t know she was screaming until she had to whoop in enough breath to keep running. Lucy’s little jeweled purse bumped against her side, something in her back tore and ran with pain, and the cold whipped through her throat as she dragged in another breath, suddenly very sure she was going to scream again.

Her legs flew out in front of her as the rest of her was wrenched violently back, a hard hand clapped over her mouth, and she was too stunned and breathless to do more than start kicking and let out a choked cry—a muffled sound, not worth much with the wind rattling the empty branches of a tree overhead.

A motor started. “Get us out of here,” the man said, and tossed her into the van as if she weighed nothing. She landed on something soft, her elbow sinking in, and there was a yelping as if she’d kicked a puppy.

“What the hell is this?” A girl’s voice, young, and there was a sudden sound like a sheet popped smooth before being laid over a bed, resolving into a low rumbling growl much different than an engine.

“Keep your mouth shut, Julia, until I tell you to open it.” He sounded furious. The voice was familiar. Sophie struggled to sit up as the van—it was definitely a van—pulled away from the curb.

What the hell? Someone grabbed her shoulders, shoved her so she half flew across the narrow space and landed hard on something softer than metal but more solid than upholstery.

“Ooof.” A hard huff of expelled breath. “Careful, there,” the man continued. “Be easy with her, dammit!”

“Who is it?” Another male voice.

I’ve been kidnapped. Oh, God. Lucy—”Lucy!” she gasped, and erupted into wild motion. Her elbow whapped something soft, and he oofed again. It might have been funny—if it hadn’t been happening to her. Her wrists were grabbed, and the hand clamped down over her mouth again. He held her still as if she was a little kid.

He was terribly, hurtfully strong, and fresh panic turned everything behind her eyelids red.

“This is our new shaman.” Silence greeted this statement. The sound of growling swallowed the hum of the engine, shook through her before settling down into something like a purr. “You can smell the potential on her. She was back there, near the upir. I think it ate her friend.”

Lucy! She got a good mouthful and bit, as hard as she’d ever bit anything in her life. So hard her jaws ached, and there was a hiss of indrawn breath. Her eyes rolled in her head, and she worried her teeth back and forth. Something warm and coppery filled her mouth. It was too thick and slippery to be spit.

“And she’s blooded me,” he continued, without any discernable change in his tone. “Which takes care of that. So all of you behave yourselves, or I’ll have your hides.”

A sharp intake of breath passed through them all, like wind through wheat. The charged silence reverberated. The van’s tires hummed.

“A shaman?” A very young male’s voice, and it sounded shocked enough for everyone involved. “A real one? A real live one?”

“A potential.” The man’s voice rumbled against her back. “She’ll trigger to us soon enough.”

It was dark inside the rocking van; it took a corner at high speed and she was tipped back against whoever was holding her. Lucy, oh, God. The image of Lucy’s body on the pavement just wouldn’t go away. Sophie made a low, despairing sound in the back of her throat and struggled, getting exactly nowhere. Her skirt was riding up, adding a whole new problem to the situation.

The stuff in her mouth coated the back of her throat. He didn’t move his hand, and she felt his skin quiver against her lips. A weird, slight movement, as if it there were small legs under the skin.

There were glitters of eyes. A reflection of streetlamp light boiled through the interior, outlining a young girl with long dark hair, her hand clapped to her cheek as if it hurt, and a slim young man who looked enough like her to be a twin, with the same narrow nose and winged eyebrows. The young man was actually crouched on a bench seat, easily swaying back and forth with the motion of the vehicle, the pale streak over his left temple reflecting streetlight.

“Slow down, Eric,” the voice behind her rumbled. The growl was coming from his chest, and his hand jammed her glasses uncomfortably against the bridge of her nose.

It was him. The guy who had bumped her at the bar.

The van slowed. “What the hell just happened?” the driver asked.

Think, Sophie! Three men and a woman. They’d just kidnapped her, for God’s sake. And Lucy … Lucy was …

“Kyle took on a rabid upir. Least, I think it was rabid—it acted like it was.” He paused, his hand peeling away from her mouth. “And Julia had to go and get involved.”

“I didn’t—” The girl cowered back as the man holding Sophie made another deep, weird sound.

It was definitely a growl. She froze, her brain struggling, attempting to deal with this new absurdity. It was more distant and dreamlike the more she thought about it.

Lucy’s white face, the horrible gaping below her chin, the blood-drenched thing with the twisting, plum-colored face—it was the Latin Lover who’d been grinding with Lucy on the dance floor, there was no mistaking that white shirt. What had he done to her?

The taste in her mouth, Sophie realized, was blood. She’d bitten him hard enough to break the skin.

Oh, God. What is he going to do to me?

“Kyle’s dead? Really dead?” The very young male voice again. “What will we do?”

The man sagged a little bit. His arms were still iron around her. “I’m working on it. For right now we’re driving, and we’re going to get the hell out of Dodge with our new shaman.” The arms around her loosened fractionally. “Now. What’s your name, honey?”

The blood smeared over her mouth crackled as cooler air hit it. Sophie took a deep breath, filling her lungs, and screamed.

He silenced her almost instantly, his bleeding hand over her mouth again. “All right, we’ll do it the hard way. Head south, Eric. Don’t stop for a while. What’s the take?”

Immediately, the two on the seat began digging in their pockets. The boy wore a denim jacket and the girl reached down into her bra, coming up with an impressive roll of bills. “Good pickings,” the boy said, his eyes glowing in the dimness. Tears glittered on his cheeks.

The girl bit her lip. She was visibly shaking, her hands jittering as the money fanned out. She threw the rest of it down as if it burned her fingers.

“Kyle …” The driver sighed. Banged his fist sharply on the wheel, once. “What about his body?”

Body? Sophie tried pitching away from the man. It was no use at all.

“He died in battle. The majir will take him home.” He didn’t even have the grace to pretend he noticed she was trying to squirm free of him. Her nose was full and the blood and spit smeared across her mouth sealed her up pretty effectively. Her lungs burned, her throat crawling with iron-tasting slickness.

She’d tasted blood before. Plenty of times. It always made her sick and light-headed, bracing herself for the next punch and hoping Mark would run out of steam. The past threatened to close over her head, a weight of black water against every muscle. Her ribs heaved as she tried to breathe, the panic attack looming over her.

Breathe, Sophie. Breathe. Don’t think of the past.

But she literally couldn’t get any air in with his hand over her mouth and her nose full, and the blackness was so close.

Then, thank God, he eased up on her a little. “Be nice and quiet, shaman. Take a deep breath.”

Shaman? What the hell? She sucked in a lungful of blessed air. The panic retreated, with a vicious little thump under her breastbone that promised it would be back.

Sophie’s eyes were beginning to get used to the inside of the van. It smelled of musk and fast food, and with each mile slipping away under the tires she was farther and farther away from Lucy’s car—and Lucy’s body. The police would be there soon, but nobody would know she’d been out with her friend.

If she could just escape, get to a phone, something, anything—What did these people want with her? She was a nobody. At least, now she was.

Mark? Maybe. He had money. But why would he want her kidnapped? He’d want something far more personal, wouldn’t he?

Oh, yes, he would. Unless they were taking her to him. Oh, God. If they were taking her to Mark, it was all over.

“I’ve got a little over a thousand,” the driver said. “Could be more or less, I wasn’t keeping close track.”

“We’ll drive for a while, then we’ll stop for food.” The one holding her loosened up a bit as the van took a sharp turn and accelerated. “We’re on the freeway now, sweetheart. Just be nice and easy—you’re safe.” He let up on her mouth again, but kept his hot fingers on her cheek, ready to gag her. The wet warmth slicking her cheeks and fogging her glasses was tears, she discovered, and blood smeared around her mouth. Had she drooled, too?

Did getting kidnapped and half suffocated make you drool?

I’ve gone insane. It’s the only explanation.

“Please don’t hurt me.” Much to her surprise, she sounded steady. Her tank top—Lucy’s tank top—was all rucked up, her bare skin against his T-shirt. He was warm, and the van was heating up. Her naked legs prickled with gooseflesh.

“We’re not going to hurt you.” The young boy crouched on the seat swayed as the van kept going. He swiped at the tears on his cheeks, scrubbing them away angrily. “Zach, are you sure? She’s a bleeder.”

“She’s got the mark, I can smell it on her. If I can, you can, too.” His hands fell away, and Sophie was suddenly aware she was half lying on him; he was wedged up against the closed side door. Her eyes flicked toward the passenger’s side in the front— there was an open seat there, and maybe she could signal or get away somehow, if she could just get that far.

Think, Sophie. Think!

“A shaman.” The driver sighed. “Goddammit.” There was a sound—palm striking steering wheel, sharply. “Kyle.”

“We’ll sing him to the moon as soon as I’m sure we’re safe. We’ll hold Silence for him until then.” The guy she was lying on—Zach—sighed, too. “It’s just us now. But we’ve got a shaman. Julia, find her a coat. Brun, gather up the money. You’ll hold it for me.”

The crying boy hopped off the seat, grabbing the roll from the girl’s hands. He paused and ducked his head when his gaze drifted across Sophie’s. That streak in his hair looked oddly familiar. He seemed not to notice he was weeping, even while the tears dripped on his denim jacket.

“Please,” she whispered. “You can just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“She’s whining.” The girl’s lip lifted. White teeth glimmered. “What a bleeder.”

There was a confused sense of motion, and Sophie landed hard on her side, her head hitting something. A burst of starry pain rocked through her skull, and the weird rattling growl crested again, drowning out the engine.

Her ears roared, too, like a high wind in acres of trees. A familiar sound, one she’d heard many times before, usually while Mark was yelling. It was always so loud when he started in on her, the screaming robbing her of breath and light, closing down her vision into a tunnel.

“Shut up, Julia!” Zach snarled, but Sophie slid down into a darkness starred with weird spangled lights, and was gone.

Chapter 6

An hour later, they stopped at a drive-through at the city limits.

They held the Silence for Kyle, none of them speaking unless absolutely necessary. It was to keep his spirit from lingering, but it meant Zach had too much time to think.

It also meant he couldn’t explain much to the new shaman. Not that she seemed disposed to listen. She shrank frantically away any time one of them came near her, and her eyes roved the inside of the van when she thought he wasn’t watching her.

Looking for escape.

He cursed to himself every time he saw her flinch. She had an oil-stained rag clasped to the side of her head. She really was a pretty little thing, curved in all the right places, her hair a tangle of sandalwood curls and those little librarian glasses—thankfully not damaged; Brun had picked them up from the carpet—perched on her adorable little nose, over two wide, pretty eyes. It was too dim to tell what color the pale irises really were. Something too light to be green, and the wrong shade for blue.

He wanted to find out.

Unfortunately, the bruise spreading down the side of her face from hitting the seat didn’t do much to help her looks. But he’d had to shut Julia up before he was tempted to hurt her. So many times now he had glanced over to gauge Kyle’s reaction to the new shaman, to Eric’s driving, to Julia’s soft sobbing in the backseat, curled up in a ball—and found an empty place where his little brother should be.

This is your fault, not Julia’s. He wasn’t hard enough to lead, and especially not to rule a traveling Family without a shaman. You know that. You still let him take the alpha, because … why?

He knew why. Because of the smell of smoke and the sound of Kyle’s agonized howl as Zach held him back, as the fire ate their home and their parents. It was right after a fight with a small wandering band of upir, both the alpha and the shaman wounded, the shaman too deep in a healing-trance to wake up in time. Smoke inhalation could kill any Tribe, and the old alpha had thrown Zach clear with the last of his strength. Dad had succumbed with his last mate, their deaths an agonizing rawness in the center of Zach’s memory.

The fire had left them homeless, without shaman or kin. And it had left Zach with the deep shame of failure. He was strong enough—he should have saved Dad or gone up in flames with the shaman. He’d made the instinctive choice, not the right one.

And an alpha couldn’t ever afford to be instinctive instead of right when it came to choices like that.

Eric handed the bags of food to Brun, who had settled in the passenger’s seat, not daring to comfort his crying twin. The shaman potential, who wouldn’t give her name, perched on the other side of the bench seat, dry-eyed and dazed. She smelled too good to be true, and he had to stop himself from taking deep lungfuls every time the air in the van shifted.

I have screwed this right up, haven’t I? But he hadn’t been thinking, just reacting to the beast’s roar of possessiveness. It had happened so quickly, and she smelled so good, brunette and cold silver light. That smell meant comfort to a Carcajou. It was the shamans who could hold the beast in check, the ice and moonlight in them taking the edge off sharp claws and blood-hunger. Already it was easier to think clearly, even with the numbness in his chest, the part of him that didn’t believe his little brother was gone.

And as soon as she was triggered, she’d belong to them. It wouldn’t take long, not with as strong as she smelled of the potential now. A stray gust of air brought him another load of the silver-smell, and he inhaled gratefully.

Kyle. I wish you were here to see this.

But he wasn’t. And they broke the Silence temporarily to break their fast. Maybe he could talk to the girl, coax her somehow.

“Dead cow ahoy,” Brun said, thrusting three huge wrapped loads of overcooked, oversalted meat and processed bread into his hands. The van started again, Eric wolfing double hamburgers almost whole. The tank was full, courtesy of the stop-and-rob across the street, and they were ready to strike out south. As soon as they finished eating they could keep the Silence again.

“You want some?” Brun had crouched, his head well below the woman’s, submission and conciliation evident in every line of his body. His pheromone wash was submissive, too, tinted with softness. He was the one she was least likely to be terrified of. And the closer he could get to her, the more they could all get their pheromones on her, the sooner she’d trigger and be theirs in truth.

She just blinked at him, holding the rag to her head. “I won’t tell anyone,” she whispered again. “Please just let me go.”

“Don’t worry.” Brun was trying to sound hopeful and soothing; Zach watched carefully, hoping she’d respond. Her scent was alternately far too pale and choking-strong. It could have been shock; it could be that she wasn’t triggered yet. “We’re not going to hurt you. We need you.”

She blinked again, as if she was having trouble focusing. It would just cap everything if she had a concussion. “Did … did Mark pay you? Whatever he promised you, please, don’t believe him. He lies.”

What? Zach didn’t like the sound of that. But he had to take it one thing at a time right now. “Just give her some food. You’d better eat, sweets. You look like you need it.” He almost glanced at the passenger’s seat to gauge Kyle’s reaction, stopped himself only by easing forward and snagging a milk shake. Eric slurped at a root beer, flipping the turn signal and setting the drink in a holder with a practiced motion. He was the best driver, but he would have to be spelled about dawn.

Zach didn’t want to stop at a hotel and give everyone time to think for a little while. He wanted to wait until he had some sort of plan in his head. Besides, he felt better when they were moving. When they were on the road and he didn’t have to think about anything other than the next food stop, the next rest stop, the steady revolution of tires. Driving felt more natural than anything else, and if they stopped he might have to face the mess he’d made of everything.

They had a shaman now. But Kyle was gone. The spirits take with one hand and give with the other, the Tribes always said. But still. Why did they have to take so much?

Brun pressed a cheeseburger and a huge clutch of fries into the woman’s lap, ignoring her flinch, and moved over to Julia, bending over and whispering in his twin’s ear. Julia’s sobs were beginning to grate. She had reason to cry, they all did. But the racking sobs were beginning to take on a whipsawing note that meant Julia was working herself up into a fit or literally crying herself sick, and neither of those things would help the situation.

The floor of the van was littered with clothes, the leatherworking supplies stacked in cases behind the passenger’s seat. Here was his chance. Zach made it to the girl’s feet and offered her the milk shake. “Here. You really need to eat something.” He tried to sound conciliatory. Soothing.

Those pale eyes met his, and he found out they were gray, like a winter sky. He got a good lungful of her, spice and beauty overlaid with the hot grease from the bag in her lap. The thread of ice and moonlight was stronger now, twining through the warp and weft of her aroma like a jasmine vine coming into bloom, but the rest of it … she smelled damn near edible. And familiar, in some way he couldn’t quite place.

She smelled like his. It was that simple. It was a mate smell, and that was going to make things even stickier.

Why couldn’t you have come along earlier, huh?

But that was unfair. She probably had no goddamn idea what she’d just landed in. Which meant it was his job to keep this whole train on the tracks for a while, at least until he could make a stab at helping her understand.

And keeping her here until she was theirs.

She shifted on the seat, pulling her knees back, and the fries were headed for the floor until he caught them, his hand blurring. Quick fingers and quicker reflexes, the Tribe birthright.

It was sometimes the most useful part of the animal inside each of them.

Her eyes were very big, and glazed. Fringed with dark lashes, and behind her smudged glasses he saw fear.

“What’s your name?” He kept his tone nice and even. He had until they finished eating to calm her down a little. Eric slurped at his root beer, and Julia made a little hitching sound. Trying to steal the limelight, again.

The woman stared at him like he was speaking German or something. Finally, she stirred. “Sophie,” she whispered.

“Sophie. That’s pretty. What’s the rest of it?” Nice and easy. Good job, Zach.

“Harr—I mean, Wilson. My maiden name’s Wilson.”

Married? Huh. He didn’t see a ring, but he supposed anything was possible. And maiden name usually meant divorce. “Nice to meet you, Sophie. Listen, you really should eat. You just saw an upir kill two people.” He couldn’t put a nicer shine on it than that. And the more he kept a tone of normalcy, the better she might respond.

Or so he hoped.

She shook her head, and tears stood out in those big dark eyes. “Lucy.” Her lips shaped the word, and he had to stop staring. It was goddamn indecent, how soft her mouth looked.

“Was that her name?” Christ. It was her friend. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: Sophie was a really pretty name. He liked it.

Pay attention to what you’re doing, Zach.

She nodded. Her fingers curled around the milk shake, brushing his, and a jolt of heat slid up his arm from the contact. Married or not, hopefully divorced or not, the animal in him thought she belonged to him.

It was a tricky situation if she was married, but it did happen. Especially with “found” shamans. There were ways to fix it.

Lots of ways. Especially if you made up your mind not to be too overly concerned with playing nice.

She took a long pull off the straw and a tear tracked down her cheek. “She wanted me to have a little fun, that’s all. Since Mark …” Another flinch, and his sensitive nose caught the discordant note, an acridity in her scent.

Fear. More fear than she was already in. It smelled like old fear, like prey. Like blood in the water and an easy meal.

He pushed down the anger threatening to bubble up inside him. Slow and easy was the way to handle this. Her eyes stuttered to his face and she flinched, as if she’d read the emotional weather there and didn’t like it.

A swallow, her vulnerable throat moving. “Whatever he’s paying you, please don’t do this. Please don’t hurt me.” She looked away, toward the milk shake, as if she couldn’t quite figure out how it had gotten in her hand.

What the hell? His jaw was threatening to clench down hard enough to break a tooth. The fear in her was all wrong. If she was terrified, it would completely negate the soothing aspect of a shaman’s scent, and that would open up a whole can of worms—not just for him, but for the younger ones, too.

“Get this straight.” He took a deep breath, leashed the animal in him, and continued. “We’re not going to hurt you. We need you, and I’m sorry it happened this way, but from now on, you’re one of us. You’re ours. The sooner you accept it, the better off you’ll be.”

It would take a lot of repeating before that sank in. Might as well get it out of the way first.

“I have to go back to work on Monday.” She blinked again, swallowed hard, and more tears slid down those pretty, curved cheeks. “I’ve got night school, too. I’m studying to be a social worker.”

Well, Christ, honey, we’ve got tons of field-work for you right here. “We’ll settle that later. For right now, you have to eat.” And stop smelling like a downed deer.

She just stared at the milk shake. Zach retreated, settling on the floor behind the driver’s seat, the rhythm of the road soaking into his bones as he tore open a fresh bag and found a burger. The Silence folded around all of them again, and he didn’t think he’d done too badly.

There was no easy way to handle this. But goddammit, she was a shaman. He could smell it on her, the potential some humans and fewer Tribe carried. Once she was triggered, she could be the nucleus of a new Family, a way to rebuild everything. With a shaman they could settle down even in a territory held by others. They were no longer rootless, wandering non-persons, dangerous because they lacked the thing that kept their kind from running amok.

They could be somebodies again, instead of fugitives. She would make them somebodies.

That was worth a little kidnapping, he decided. Whatever life she had back in the city they were now leaving, she would just have to learn to let go of. His little Family needed her too much.

Chapter 7

The van jolted, and Sophie clawed up into full wakefulness, biting back a scream. Someone had draped a coat over her, and it was warm. Thin winter sunlight showed leafless trees, a few ragged pines, not blurring by but merely ambling. The vehicle made a deep turn, braked to a halt, and the engine cut off.

Finally. They were stopping. The eerie quiet in the car was breaking up, too, like ice in a river. Her ears had felt stuffed with cotton wool, but maybe it was the crying.

“Wake up.” The girl shook her shoulder, fingers biting in. Her voice was rusty, as if she’d spent weeks instead of hours not talking. “Time to wash, bleeder.”

Sophie sat up, blinking, and found the tank top had ridden up and twisted around, and the skirt—never very decent in the first place—was hitched up to show her panties, for God’s sake. Her entire face was crusty and aching, and she had to use the bathroom like nobody’s business. Her stomach rumbled.

The side door opened and the van cleared out. It was amazing, how people could fit in here. Clothes tangled across the floor, one bench seat had been taken out, and the back was stuffed with plastic bags. It didn’t smell bad, though, just musky and close.

Sophie clutched the coat to her chest. The girl made a spitting sound of annoyance. “Come on, will you? I’ve got to pee before my kidneys float away.”

You’re not the only one. Mechanically, she pulled the skirt down, tried to straighten the tank top. Lucy’s black heels were on the floor, and the way her back ached she didn’t think she could stand to put them back on.

But she did, because cold air was pouring in through the open side door. Frost rimed the slice of a parking lot she could see, and as soon as she hopped awkwardly out of the van, pulling her skirt down and shivering, she found out they were at a rest stop off the freeway. A brick building housed restrooms, a creek wandered on the side away from the freeway down a short hill, and another building had vending machines behind iron grating, a wall full of maps in plastic cases, and—oh, my God—a Kiwanis booth selling coffee.

An old man sat in the booth, reading a newspaper, occasionally glancing out over the empty parking lot. The van, she now saw, was an older maroon Chevy, and her eyes came back to the man in the coffee booth.

The girl—Julia—jostled her from behind. She had dark eyes, long straight dark hair starred with that single streak that turned out to be white, and a sweet face, with the type of clear pale skin only found on the very young. Amazing skin. She was pretty, but there was an unfinished look around her mouth, like she was trying to be hard and not quite succeeding.

And she looked, for some reason, spoiled. Sophie couldn’t put her finger on quite how, but she had the same overprivileged look as the mean-girl cheerleaders from Sophie’s high school years.

“Come on.” The girl slung her arm over Sophie’s shoulders and started hurrying her to the bathrooms. She was a good head taller, and skinny, but strong. Sophie struggled to keep up, stumbled, and almost turned her ankle. And the girl began to whisper, very fast and low, as if she’d been bursting to talk. “Jeez. You are useless. Don’t worry, I’ve got some stuff that might fit you. Zach’ll take care of anything else later today, probably. We had a good haul last night.” Julia took a deep breath, squeezed Sophie’s shoulders roughly. “He was my brother. Kyle.”

What? Last night was distant and dreamlike, receding like the van. Her heels clicked. Her stomach cramped, and her back was made out of aching concrete. There seemed nothing to say.

“The one who got killed last night. He was my brother.” Julia cast a glance back over her shoulder, her voice dropping even further.

“Oh.” Sophie couldn’t think of anything else to say. My best friend got killed, too, I guess we’re even didn’t sound, well, very useful. It was what Lucy would call Not Helpful.

“It’s not your fault,” Julia continued softly, and she sounded magnanimous, condescending, and outright miserable all at once. “I’m stupid. I’ve always been stupid. I just don’t think. Not like Zach. And our alpha’s dead and all we’ve got is a stupid bleeder to show for it.” She paused, and cast another quick little glance over her shoulder. “Even if you do smell like Mom. I never … I was just … I thought I could kill it. The upir. I’m good at that.”

What, you mean you’re good at killing? God, what a thing to say to someone you’ve kidnapped. Sophie shivered. The thing in the white shirt. She’d stuck around long enough to see something awful, something so unreal, her mind even now shivered away from it. She flinched all over, inside and out, and stumbled again.

It was dark and I was just confused. That’s all.

It was, Sophie reflected, a bad time to start lying to herself. She needed to think clearly if she was going to get out of this mess, and part of thinking clearly was figuring out last night.

What actually had happened? The only thing she was sure of was that Lucy was dead, and she had started running, screaming, a confusion of panic roaring through her. Lucy’s white face, the terrible gaping hole where her throat should be, the thing in the white shirt snarling as its face twisted up, white teeth too big for its livid-lipped mouth—

“Watch where you’re going,” the girl said as Sophie tripped, and hauled her up over the curb. “Jeez. Heels. Why didn’t you wear something practical?”

You little … Sophie found her voice. “I didn’t know I was going to be kidnapped.” The sarcasm surprised her. “Or watch my best friend get killed. I kind of forgot to put it in my day planner.”

“Huh.” Julia let go of her. She studied Sophie intently for a long moment, and stopped whispering. “I guess.” She held up her free hand, which was full of cloth. “I’ve got something you can change into. If you want.”

Oh, God. I’ve been kidnapped and she wants me to dress appropriately. “Fine.” The side of her face hurt, but it didn’t seem to be too bruised. She didn’t dare glance at the old man in the Kiwanis booth. If I can get over there—he’s got to have a phone, right? Or something.

The bathroom was cold and industrial, but well-lit and actually clean. The clothes turned out to be a pair of jeans that fit if she rolled up the legs like a little kid, and a long-sleeved thermal shirt that clung embarrassingly. There was a flannel button-down, too, with the same smell of musk and laundry detergent, but no socks and absolutely no undergarments.

The girl steered her toward the handicapped stall; Sophie shivered through changing and spent a blissful few minutes getting rid of the pressure on her bladder. When she came out, clutching Lucy’s clothes to her chest, she looked longingly at the sink. It would feel so nice to wash her face, even if the water was freezing.

But Julia was still in a stall, humming something off-key. Sophie clutched the sad, small scraps of clothing and the heels, hugging them, and caught a glimpse of herself in the scratched piece of metal passing for a mirror. Wide eyes, her smudged glasses, and a wild mop of hair. She probably looked like a bag lady, though the side of her face wasn’t that badly discolored. There was just a tender spot under her hair and puffy redness down her cheek, and she’d had worse.

Much worse.

She stared at the mirror for a few seconds, trying to clear her head. A rattling sound echoed in the depths of her memory, and she shivered. But it made her start moving, impelled by the sure intuition that had saved her more than once. It didn’t happen often, that tingle along her nerves. Since leaving Hammerheath, it had always been accompanied by the rattling buzz of copper-bottomed—

Did I feel it last night, and just not pay attention? She pushed the question aside and took the first few tentative steps.

Her purse was still in the van. Stupid, stupid, stupid! she chanted inwardly as she edged, heart hammering, for the entrance. Cold tile gritted under her bare feet, and she eased out of the hallway and into the chill of a winter morning. Without the heels, her footsteps were silent.

She set off for the Kiwanis booth, not daring to look over her shoulder. Don’t act guilty. But walk quickly. Walk determined. Catch his eye.

Her stomach rumbled. If she could catch the man’s attention and ask him to call the police, she could get free, she could … what? Give a statement?

What statement could she give? She hadn’t seen anything she could swear to, just things out of a nightmare. Things with fangs, and a confused impression of something leaping, something covered in hair like a …

Like what, exactly? She couldn’t put it into words. And the rattling in her head got louder.

Forty feet away, the man coughed behind his newspaper. Her feet were numb; she stepped on a pebble and winced. Going barefoot at home was nothing like this. The jeans were raspingly unfamiliar, and she really wanted nothing more than her own kitchen, her ratty chenille robe, and a hot cup of coffee. And a Danish. A warm one, dripping with icing and with chunks of brown-sugar-drenched apple.

She could almost taste it, and hurried up. Thirty feet. Twenty-five.

The air was still except for the hum of traffic from the freeway. What was she going to say? This isn’t a joke. I’ve been kidnapped. Please help me.

She practiced it inside her head, clutching the clothes to her chest. Cold morning wind touched her hair, and the sky was still orangeish in the east from dawn. If she was at home she’d probably still be in bed, and if Lucy stayed over—

Pain jabbed through her chest. Oh, Lucy. Luce. God.

The rattling in her head got worse. Fifteen feet. Ten.

She opened her mouth—and let out her breath in a sigh when the man looked up, his hazel eyes caught in a net of crinkles, his smile immediate and genuine.

The buzzing rattle stopped.

A heavy arm fell over her shoulders. “Cup of coffee, sweetheart?” Zach said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Everything in her cringed away. She stared at the old man, willing him to realize she’d been about to ask him for help. The sore spot under her hair throbbed, and her cheek was on fire.

The old man grinned even wider, if that was possible. She saw the glasses dangling on a chain at his chest, and her heart sank. “What a pretty young miss. I call all the young girls ‘miss.’ Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Zach’s arm tightened. “Make that three coffees, please. And probably a doughnut for her, too. We’ve been driving all night.”

“Family trip?” The man eased off his stool and shuffled around the small booth. “Reason I ask is, I heard your van door.”

Zach grinned easily. “Yeah, heading south. Warmer down there.” His arm tightened again, and he—of all things—bent down and kissed the top of Sophie’s head, inhaling deeply. As if smelling her. She writhed inwardly with embarrassment; what was she supposed to do? Start screaming?

What would he do if she did?

A sudden crystalline image from last night, right before she’d run off like a panicked idiot, burned through her brain. It was the thing that had killed Lucy, snarling and champing its too-big teeth, while Zach’s shape changed like clay under running water.

Growing fur.

Sudden certainty nailed her in place, the chill concrete biting into her feet. I didn’t imagine that. I saw it. That’s what made me run. I saw it all.

“Oh, I hear ya, I hear ya.” The old man shrugged inside his jacket, setting out three foam cups, putting a pink bakery box on the small counter. “Honey, why don’t you just peek in there and see if there’s a doughnut you like? I got apple fritters, and Bismarcks, and all sorts of good things. Fresh this morning, too.”

Sophie swallowed hard, her throat making a little clicking noise. Zach bumped her, gently, and she was suddenly very sure that if she didn’t try to act normally, something would Happen.

Like something “happened” to Lucy? He said they weren’t going to hurt me.

He could have been lying. She’d heard “I’m not going to hurt you” before. If she had a quarter for every time she’d heard it, she wouldn’t have to worry about scraping together rent for a year.

Zach used his free hand to open up the top of the bakery box. “See anything good?” He sounded concerned. Morning light was kind to him, running over the shadow of stubble on his face, the thin nose, dark eyes a lot of women probably liked. His hair was a soft mess except for the wiriness of the white streak. One stubborn wave of it fell over his forehead, and he actually grinned down at her like he was having a great time.

Sourness rose in her throat. He’d kidnapped her, and had the effrontery to smile and put his arm over her shoulder like he owned her?

“I’m not hungry,” she managed through the stone in her throat. “But thanks.” She stared at the old man, her eyes burning. Look at me. Please see me. Please help me.

“Dieting? Never did anyone any good, honey. First three letters of diet are a warning, that’s what they are.” He wasn’t looking at her; he was pouring the coffee, frowning a little. She tried leaning away from Zach’s arm, but it was useless. Her feet went numb, aching from the cold. “My wife used to say that. Cream and sugar?”

“Only in one.” Zach peered into the bakery box, pulling her with him. “And I think we’ll take two of these apple fritters. They look nice.”

“You go ahead now. That’ll be three dollars for the coffee, young man. You just take those fritters as a gift from me.”

“Why, thank you.” He sounded so normal, so nice, as if he hadn’t kidnapped a woman and killed—

Oh, my God. He killed that thing, didn’t he? “Upir,” he’d said. Her head hurt just thinking about it, spikes of glassy pain through her temples.

Nobody would miss her for another twenty-four hours, and by then, who knew how far away they would have taken her? Her ferns would die, she wouldn’t be at work Monday morning, and Battle-Ax Margo, the office manager, would have a conniption. Nobody knew she’d gone out with Lucy, and Luce was between boyfriends. What was happening right now? Were the police trying to find her? Trying to find Lucy’s car keys?

If I hadn’t divorced Mark someone would be missing me right now—but if I hadn’t run away in the first place I wouldn’t have been out last night. God.

Zach moved again, and she almost flinched, but he was handing her two monstrous apple fritters wrapped in a napkin, tucking them on top of the clothes she clutched to her chest. “Here. Hold these, sweetie. Why don’t you head on back to the car, and I’ll bring your coffee?”

The old man chuckled. She realized he was not just shortsighted; he just really wasn’t interested in anything she might say. “My wife was like that. Bit of a bear in the morning without her coffee, God bless her.”

“Go on, now.” Zach gave her a meaningful look, and when Sophie snapped a glance over her shoulder she saw the two other men at the open van, watching intently. They all had those weird pale stripes in their hair, like a dye job gone wrong. Maybe it was a gang sign?

Yeah, like the badass Lady Clairols. Come on, Sophie. Think of something!

There was nobody else around, and what could the old man do?

Nothing. She was just as helpless now as she’d been last night.

“Fine.” She backed up as Zach’s arm fell away. Her feet felt frozen, and if she stepped on anything sharp now she’d probably be too numb to care. Each step was another jab of freezing pain up her legs, and her toes felt clumsy.

The younger boy, sitting crouched just inside the van door, eyed her. He was a male copy of Julia, but instead of looking spoiled and unfinished he had a perpetually worried grin and a way of hunching his shoulders as if he was painfully uncertain. “You okay?” he asked, softly, tilting his head to the side. His eyes were red-rimmed and his nose a little chapped from crying.

The other one, bigger and broad-shouldered but not as tall as Zach, had odd, piercing blue eyes. He regarded her warily, hunching inside his tattered leather jacket. He had one hand raised, and as she glanced at him his strong white teeth worried a little at the leather cuff of his sleeve.

No, I’m not okay. How could I be anything like okay? But some instinct made her hold out the fritters with one hand freed from the clothes, despite the way her stomach growled. “Here. These are for you.”

“Hey, thanks!” The younger one grabbed one, took a huge wolfish bite, and grinned. The blue-eyed one took the other more slowly, but at least he stopped snacking on his sleeve. “I’m Brun. This is Eric. He’s our cousin. Gee, aren’t your feet cold? Come on up.” He moved aside, and Sophie mechanically climbed into the van. It still held a ghost of warmth.

They both peered at her, the one in the leather jacket nibbling at his fritter now.

“These are really good,” Brun continued. “Are you really a shaman?”

“She’s a found shaman, not even triggered. She wouldn’t know, not yet.” The blue-eyed one—Eric—eyed her speculatively. “This means we can settle down somewhere.”

“You think? It’d be nice. We haven’t settled anywhere since the farm …” Maddeningly, he stopped, and gave her a shy smile. Dark puppy eyes glimmered at her. “It’s nice to meet you. You’re going to take care of us?”

It was too absurd to even guess at an answer. “You kidnapped me.” She sounded flat and unhelpful even to herself. “I’m supposed to take care of you? “

“We’re Carcajou.” Eric shrugged. “Makes no sense to you now, but it will. And Zach’s—”

“Zach’s what?” Zach was at the door suddenly, his shadow filling it, and the other two fell silent. “Coffee, Eric. Courtesy of our new shaman. Isn’t she sweet?”

“Breakfast?” Julia arrived, looking fresh as a daisy, her glossy hair combed and her face pink from scrubbing. Sophie’s skin crawled, and her mouth tasted like ashes. “Where’s mine?”

“You don’t get any,” Zach said pleasantly. “I told you to watch her.”

“She’s right here.” Julia’s lower lip stuck out, and she looked supremely confident that she would get her way.

“Get in the van. If we lose our shaman like we lost our alpha, I’m holding you responsible. Even if it’s not on your watch.” Zach’s pleasant tone and even smile didn’t change, but something in his face shifted, and the morning grew a little chillier. Sophie eased back, suddenly very sure something awful was about to happen. She’d felt the same way before, whenever Mark was a certain type of quiet or smelled too strongly of liquor when he came home.

But Julia just bowed her head and hopped into the van. They all moved so gracefully it was unreal. The rest of them piled in, and Sophie was suddenly in the middle of a press of bodies. Zach thrust a foam cup into her hands. “Cream and sugar, sweetheart. And then we’ll figure out getting you a toothbrush and everything. You’re probably not ready for life on the road.”

That is such an understatement. Sophie stared at him. The van door heaved shut, closing the empty parking lot outside. It might as well be the surface of the moon. It was just as far away—and just as useless to her.

The weird crackling quiet folded over all of them. She was about to say something—plead, maybe, or point out that they were kidnapping her, or something equally useless. But the odd silence filled every corner of the van and stopped the words in her throat.

The van started up again, and she found herself huddling against the wall on the far side, the coffee in her numb hands and her face aching. It was no use.

She was trapped. At least, for now.

Chapter 8

A day’s worth of driving had them a safe five hundred miles away, even with bathroom and food breaks. It was far enough that he couldn’t avoid having them stop, and a comfortable distance from a rabid upir attack.

They kept the Silence unless they were eating, and there seemed no reassurance that would get the new shaman to open up. After a few tries he gave up. She didn’t even respond to Brun’s gentle mealtime questions.

She even refused to eat, just huddled in the back under his coat and stared reproachfully at them all. When the Silence came back she trembled and closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. It was a good pretense, and he let her keep it.

Julia loftily ignored the girl except for a bathroom break, and Zach saw his sister pinch her as she was hurried toward another rest-stop bathroom.

He let that go. Another night in their company, smelling them, would trigger her—if the biochemical process hadn’t been started already by their proximity. Found shamans took longer than born shamans to adjust to life in a Family, to the responsibility and the shock of finding out the world held more than just regular old humans.

Then again, most found shamans were taken into a regular Family and trained by another shaman, finding and shifting to a Family of their own later. They weren’t taken off the street right after an upir attack by a half-wild shaman-less Family who had just lost their alpha. It was the worst possible scenario.

And there was another thing. The instinct that had compelled him to grab her was circling the bottom of his mind even now, whispering other things.

Things like, Look at that hair, even all tangled up it’s pretty and it smells like sunshine.

Or, Those hips have a nice curve to them, don’t they?

Or how about, Her lips look pretty kissable when she purses them like that.

And something less pleasant. We’re being followed.

Night fell in cold streaks of scarlet and orange, the Silence breaking naturally on its own. Clouds massed on the horizon along with the glow of a good-size city. A hotel on the fringes wasn’t hard to find. They were flush with cash, so he sent Eric in to get a room, then shepherded his weary Family up the stairs to a nice little room with two queen beds and a kitchenette, not to mention a television Julia immediately turned on and a bathroom the new shaman looked longingly at.

The flannel shirt was too big for her, and it was his. The sight of her wrapped in something he owned was guaranteed to distract him—just like the smell of her mixing with his smell and rolling off the fabric. Right into the middle of his head, and right below the belt.

Brun hopped out the door to get food, and Julia and Eric were sent to get toiletries, things the new shaman would need. That left him alone in the room with her, and as soon as the silence closed around them she edged for the bathroom, shutting the door with a bang audible even through the television’s yapping.

He turned the idiot box down and pulled the curtains, spending a few minutes watching the parking lot. The animal in him crouched watchfully. There was no reason to think they were being followed … but there it was. The itching between his shoulder blades and the nagging feeling in his gut just wouldn’t go away.

Trust that feeling, son, his father’s voice growled inside his head. It’s your best friend, and it’ll keep you and your Family safe.

His father.

That wasn’t a good thought, so he shut it away. The smell of smoke and the crushing weight of responsibility wouldn’t quite go until he took a few deep breaths and reminded himself that he had problems in the here and now, and thinking about the past wouldn’t solve them.

Kyle’s spirit was safely over the border now, into the shifting realm of the majir. Which meant he had to talk to her, and try not to screw it up too badly.

He gave her ten minutes, then turned the television off and tapped at the bathroom door. “You can come out, sweetheart. We need to talk.”

We definitely need to talk. The sooner you understand a few things, the better off everyone will be.

Nothing. No sound of running water, no sniffles, just a deathly silence. He was sure there was no window in there; he’d checked. But still, his hand hovered above the doorknob. It would be a simple matter to snap a cheap hotel-door lock and walk in.

He didn’t even know who this girl was. Sophie, okay. Married once, possibly married still. Curly hair and steel-rimmed glasses, vulnerable wintry eyes and curves to make a racetrack die of envy. She smelled good, but among Carcajou there was such a thing as courting a female. Even when she smelled like she was his already, her pheromones striking sparks against his sensitive nose.

He knocked again, suddenly acutely aware that he was unshaven, smelling of unwilling attraction and acrid worry, still wearing the same clothes he’d been in last night. She was bound to be confused, upset. He’d have to handle her carefully.

Yeah. Like you have a clue how to handle a woman carefully. You’ve been doing a bang-up job so far.

He’d been too young to even think about mating while his parents were alive, and the gatherings where young people of each Tribe eyed one another and courted were closed to them once they were on their own. And human women smelled like food, not mates. His entire knowledge of what to say to a human woman came from television. Julia was no help at all, either.

There was a slight scraping noise. What’s that? He listened so intently he could hear her pulse, quickening now, and the soft soughing of her breathing. Up to something in there. Huh. He knocked again, softly. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you, no matter what you think. I’ll explain everything. Just come on out, Sophie. Is it short for Sophia?”

Another soft sound. Was it a laugh? The animal in him perked its ears, expectant. It was like hunting, waiting for the prey to appear.

Only she wasn’t prey. She was something else. Something he wanted to run down and fill his mouth with. Something good.

He touched the doorknob, running his fingers over it. “Come on. At least say something.”

“Go away,” came the muffled answer. But her breathing was high and harsh now, and her pulse thudded, as if she was in some sort of pain. There were other scratching, wrenching noises under the thunder of her stress-laden breathing.

What the hell? He twisted the knob and pulled the door open, opening his mouth to ask her if she was hurt.

The blow came out of nowhere. Faster reflexes saved him; he ducked and caught it in one hand, her surprising strength sending a shock all the way down his arm. She was screaming like a banshee suddenly, trying to wrench it away—a cheap hotel towel rack, pried loose from the wall. He smelled blood, too, and instinct woke in a red blur. He ripped the thing out of her hands and caught her wrist as she flew at him, still screaming.

She beat at him with her free fist until he caught it, trapping it in his much-larger hand and yanking her around as if she weighed less than a feather. There was a clear space next to the bathroom door, between the jamb and a closet space holding an ironing board and hangers attached to a rod.

He shoved her back; her shoulders met the wall with a tooth-rattling thump, and trapped her there. She kept struggling until he got her arms up over her head and pressed against her, bloodscent teasing and taunting at the animal, and the acrid reek of a shaman’s fear tearing at his control.

Goddammit. She pitched from side to side, mad with fear, and tried to bite him. Her mouth landed against his shoulder, she drove her teeth in again, and he froze, fingers clamping down until she made a small hurt sound, an interruption in her screaming.

She was biting him. Teeth in flesh, a promise and spur all at once. A red tide washed through him, and he almost lost it right there.

Control. Memory rose—he was twelve years old, and the alpha’s fingers were crushing the back of his neck, holding him still. Control the beast. We are human, we are Carcajou. We are not savages.

Still, with a shaman in an ecstasy of fear, accidents could happen. Bad accidents. And she had no idea that her teeth in his skin were an enticement.

She tried kneeing him, but he was pressed so hard against her, a slim soft thing between him and the unforgiving wall, she couldn’t get any leverage. The ice-and-moonlight smell broke over him in a cresting wave, and confusion between the obedience bred into every Carcajou’s bones to that smell and the response to the feel of her against him, the sunshine aroma of her hair filling his nose and its softness rubbing against his stubble as he buried his face in the tangled curls, gave him bare seconds to take a breath before drowning.

He came back to himself piecemeal, a sobbing woman between him and the wall, his fingers bruising-tight around her wrists and violence just a hairsbreadth away.

Oh, God. Get out of this one. Control yourself, goddammit; nobody can do it for you! You’re not a savage. You’re Carcajou.

The animal in him didn’t believe it. Arousal was a lead bar in the lowest part of his belly, her fear dragging sharp claws over his skin. “Calm down,” he managed, in a voice that had precious little of humanity left in it. It was a snarl, pure and simple. “Calm the fuck down, girl, or we are going to have problems.” Problems that make this look like making out in the back of a Chevy. Jesus, don’t think about that. Control.

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, 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 flick his tongue delicately against her 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.

“I am not going to hurt you,” he whispered into her hair. “You hear me? We need you. You have no idea how much. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I promise.”

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