by RJ Blain
“It’s simple. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Won’t be the last shifter who hightails it out of Charlotte after being startled into their first shift. Better than a good old mid-city maul if you ask me. I’ll take you back, and another shifter or a mystic will help you through your first shift back to human, get you some clothes, and straighten you out. I’d offer to help, but I’m not the right type of mystic. I’m better at subduing than transformative magic. I get paid for delivering you, and everyone’s happy. If you don’t maul any innocent bystanders, I won’t have to fight you. It’s a good deal for both of us. Or, I can sedate you, drag you to town by your tail, and still get paid. No skin off my back.”
I twisted around to stare at my tail, which had black stripes barely distinguishable against my charcoal fur. The tip twitched side to side, and I traced the movement. The urge to pounce shivered through me, but I squelched it, jerking my head away before I made an even bigger fool of myself.
The excitement and joy of finally becoming a proper shifter gave way to reality, and without knowing what had triggered my transformation and what I’d done on my way out of Charlotte, I’d get a side dish of humiliation to go along with my embarrassment, confusion, and anxiety.
The mystic chuckled, turned, and gestured for me to follow. “Come along, then. Better to just get this over with.”
Without any other way to express my tangled emotions, I roared.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The mystic pulled out a blowdart, startling me enough I hesitated a moment too long. The projectile thumped into my flank, and the tingling I associated with active magic stabbed through me, spreading numbness far faster than mundane sedatives could ever hope to accomplish. I made it two steps and unsheathed my claws before I collapsed, my awareness funneling to a pinpoint of light.
My last coherent thought was a promise to strip the flesh from the man’s bones and leave bits of him strewn across the forest as a warning for others. Through a dense mental fog, I was aware of a lurching, sickening motion while I breathed in heavy pants. For brief moments, pain woke me before cresting into blinding agony.
I sank back into a drugged stupor.
When the fog receded, I became aware of two facts. First, I was human. Second, I was bound up tighter than a pig ready for the spit. My arms were twisted behind me, and the backs of my hands pressed painfully together. Ropes dug into the tender flesh of my palms and numbed my fingers.
It hurt enough I filed the position away in case I ever needed to torture someone.
My legs weren’t much better off; rope tied my knees and ankles together with my feet tucked beneath me. Tugging my hands pulled at the restraints around my calves. I blinked, and my eyelashes brushed against fabric.
A single swallow and experimental press of my tongue confirmed someone had stuffed a gag in my mouth, the cherry on top of the shit cake of my life. Memories of prowling through the forest as an animal—a giant black cat—pierced through the ache in my head.
Somehow I had shifted, made it out of Charlotte, and gotten tagged and bagged by a mercenary before somehow shifting back to human. Whoever had tied me up had done a damned good job of it, too.
Even if I escaped, I probably wouldn’t have use of my fingers, hands, or feet. I wiggled my fingers, and blinding pain surged up my arms and erupted behind my eyes. The gag muffled my groan, and I shuddered.
Winning my freedom would only be the beginning. It’d likely take a mystic to undo the damage done by my captor—captors?
Why did beer always have to get me in trouble? All the worst problems in my life began with beer. I forced my concentration back to my immediate problems. Contemplating the nature of my misfortune would have to wait until I removed the gag and blindfold. Keeping my breaths slow and deep, I wiggled, struggling to stay quiet. No matter how much it hurt, screaming would alert someone I was awake, costing me the little advantage I had.
I prioritized the blindfold over the gag; sight would give me a better feel for how much trouble I was in. To free myself from the cloth, I’d have to catch it on something and hope I could either pull the material over my head or move it enough to uncover my eyes.
Without any knowledge of my surroundings, I might end up blinding myself permanently.
Stalling might keep my eyeballs intact, but it wouldn’t get me free, help me find out what was going on, or explain why someone wanted me. I hadn’t used the name Jesse in years, not to anyone east of the Mississippi. Even if a picture of me existed from before my escape, my dark hair, tanned skin, and clothing bore little resemblance to my former self.
In Wyoming, some of the tribe knew me as Jesse Alexander, but they didn’t care about my past. Runs Against Wind pleased them, and they refused to call me anything else. I thought back on the years, and on the men and women I’d met along the way, and doubted anyone who’d heard my true name would link me, the odd, tribe-favored woman I’d become, to the Water Viper.
Some even believed me a man. Using my appearance to deceive others often made a big difference when it came to my survival.
My captors knew my gender, stripping me of my sense of security in addition to my clothes, although I suspected my tunic had fallen prey to my first shift. I missed the constricting pressure of the wraps I used to flatten my chest. Alarm spurred me into shifting my arms despite the pain. Fabric rustled against my skin.
I swallowed back a relieved sigh. Tied up was bad enough. Tied up and naked? There were limits to how bad a situation could get before I lost my cool. I could handle my current predicament, to a point. Once I got the gag out of my mouth and my eyes uncovered, I’d be a lot happier about things.
When I ducked my chin to my chest to get better leverage, something constricted around my throat. I froze, straining to catch my breath, and tilted my head back. The pressure eased.
I would have preferred tied up and naked over tied up and tied up at risk of strangulation any day of the week. Experimenting with my range of motion took far longer than I liked. I discovered the binding responsible for choking me knotted behind my neck, which allowed me to move from side to side or back but not forward.
Someone really didn’t want me going anywhere, which only made me more determined to free myself. I rested my cheek on the cold, smooth floor, took a deep, steadying breath, and moved my head up and down, pushing the limits of the restraints. The fabric bound around the top of my head and over my eyes bunched up. I took several breaks to catch my breath, aware if I exerted myself too much, the gag would suffocate me.
After what felt like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, I managed to slide the blindfold above my brow. Despite being blinded for so long, my eyes adjusted to the dark room far faster than I expected.
I couldn’t tell if the floor was tiled in granite or marble, but the polished stone offered no obvious ways to free myself. Who kept a completely empty room? A window set high in the wall suggested I was being held in a basement. At least several days had gone by; time had sliced away at the moon, which had been close to full when I’d last seen it.
Whoever had captured me meant to keep me. The choker around my throat would cut off my breath if I attempted to get to my knees, since the movement required me to duck my head to my chest. The necessary lurching involved worried me, too. I had no idea if I’d end up doing even more harm to myself trying to force my aching, tingling body into motion.
I didn’t look forward to the moment the ropes loosened and my extremities figured out they could get unimpeded blood flow. My hands and feet already hurt. Freedom would come at a cost of pain, and I’d be pretty damned impressed with myself if I didn’t scream.
How the hell was I supposed to get free in an empty room tied up so tightly I couldn’t even roll over without causing myself excruciating pain? If I had any idea how to shift, could I break the ropes by transforming?
Clothes didn’t stand a chance against shifter magic, but rope was a different matter. What would happen if I fig
ured out the trick of shifting? I wasn’t certain I wanted to find out.
My curses emerged as growled grunts.
I hated cheaters, and cheaters who shot me with tranquilizers from the doorway were the worst. Disjointed memories of pain and movement cut through the drugs clouding my head. One battle went to me; they kept the blindfold off, and after they began taking their pot shots at a distance, they removed the gag, too.
In the lucid moments between doses, I understood my captors were confident I had no hope of escape. They wanted me alive; while I had no memory of them caring for me, I didn’t feel hungry, thirsty, or even filthy. My nose, far more sensitive than I thought it should be, reported the faint scent of soap.
When I roused enough to crack open my eyes, I’d changed rooms although my general situation remained the same. I tested the ropes binding my arms behind my back and whimpered at the burning pain radiating from my wrists, elbows, and shoulders. It didn’t take much to confirm I still wore the choker.
Instead of the expected stone, I rested on a polished hardwood floor, warm from the sunlight streaming in through the window. From my prone position, I got a good look at tall trees beyond a flowery meadow, the sort of place I’d enjoy visiting if I had a choice in the matter.
Freedom taunted me, a single pane of glass away, but I couldn’t even roll over to get to it. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to take slow, even breaths. I almost expected the drugs to suck me under, but I remained conscious.
While being awake was an improvement over a senseless stupor, unless I performed a miracle—or figured out how to shift—I could only think about the ways I might be able to escape. Unfortunately, I needed to free something first. A foot would do. Just one. With a free foot, I could perform the world’s worst hop to the window, bust some glass, and start cutting rope. I’d slice myself open in the process, running the risk of bleeding to death, but losing my life beat remaining a captive.
At least I’d have a choice in my fate.
I swallowed, grimacing at the ache in my throat. Did my cold still haunt me, or were the first signs of dehydration kicking in? Keeping someone dehydrated and starved was an efficient way to prevent them from causing trouble.
I considered it unnecessary overkill.
I cursed, but after the first words tumbled out of my mouth, a cough built in my chest and escaped. The force of it jerked my head forward, and the collar choked off my breath. I fought the increasing itch in my throat, but I hacked and wheezed.
It hurt, but I forced my head back and lay limp on the floor, my body shaking in the aftermath of my coughing fit. I gave a cautious shake of my head.
Beads clicked together. I blinked. My beads were still in my hair? I strained in an effort to twist enough to catch a glimpse of my hair and how it was tied; considering nothing hung in my face, someone had done something with it, which I found odd.
Why would my captors keep my hair nice and neat?
Why did they let me keep my beads? How had they stayed in my hair through the shifting process? If they hadn’t, had my captors tied them in? If they had, they probably had gotten their order all wrong, and once I got free, it’d take forever to organize and braid them in properly. It was such a little thing, but the thought of someone having messed with them infuriated a growl out of me.
It was bad enough to be a captive, but was fucking with my hair really necessary?
The instant I got loose, someone was going to pay in blood, and a lot of it.
Long after I expected to get shot in the ass with another tranquilizer dart, I considered choices. I could get to my knees and worm my way to the window despite the choker, or I could slowly die of dehydration. My breath burned in my throat, and by dusk, my tongue felt thick and unwieldy in my mouth.
As the sun dipped towards the horizon, the shadows of the nearby forest smothered the meadow. Fire and blood painted the sky, and I shivered at the ill omen. Some believed a bloody sunset boded well for the night while most, like me, had different thoughts on the matter. The last thing I needed was to lose any blood. I had too many problems as it was.
If I rolled with my chin tucked, I’d run the risk of strangling myself. Rolling with my head tilted back would be a challenge. Without the dulling influence of the drugs, I could move, although it hurt.
All I needed was to get to my knees. Then, I could shuffle to the window. Unlike the other rooms I’d been held in, I could reach the glass while on my knees. Breaking the glass with my head would hurt, but I wouldn’t necessarily bleed to death.
Who was I kidding? I’d be picking how I died, choosing a bloody, messy, window-inflicted death over remaining a captive. It’d be a defenestration gone terribly wrong, aborted before I could fall. A panicked giggle built in my chest.
Some things never changed, no matter how hard I tried.
Bracing for the pain, I jerked in my effort to gain momentum to roll. The motion sent flashes of agony up my arms to burst in my head. It hurt too much to scream, and I stiffened, shaking at the onslaught. I gasped for breath, my eyes watering.
I spat curses, waiting until my shudders subsided to a weak tremble. If I couldn’t roll, how was I supposed to get to my knees? Anger boiled under my skin. I remembered the wild freedom of being a large cat in the dark woods. Growls didn’t satisfy me and neither did the few hisses I managed before the pain in my throat crested and stole away my breath.
I waited for the worst to pass, and when it did, I licked my lips and tasted the metallic hint of blood. My impotency stoked the flames of my rage until there was only one sound left for me to make.
In the forest, my roar had been a potent thing, dry thunder rolling through the trees. My cry was a shadow of its former glory, and when it finally died in my throat, I stayed silent. I tasted my blood and stared out into the darkness beyond the window, acknowledging the distance I had no hope of crossing, freedom so close yet so terribly far.
I dreamed of a wind so strong it held me up even when I leaned forward, much as it had the day I’d met the Cheyenne tribe. My beads tapped against each other, and my golden eagle feathers rustled as though they longed to return to the sky one last time.
Breathing in, I savored the hint of desert in the air with the faint promise of rain to come, waking memories of my home in Cheyenne. When the tribe called for the rain, the wind carried their cries, and the pound of their feet and drums thundered in the distance.
Pain woke me, and I curled to escape it. Instead of a scream, a hacking cough burst from my lips.
The suffocating pressure I expected on my throat didn’t come, although my breaths rattled in my chest. A shudder ran through me as my elbows, my shoulders, and my knees reported the worst of the pain with my wrists and ankles coming in a close second.
Something touched my shoulder; it hurt so much I flinched away. It was then I realized I was free. Desperation and fear stabbed through me, and I struggled to escape, scrambling across the floor, my hand dropping to my hip to the sword I didn’t have.
Golden eyes glowed in the darkness.
A voice spoke, but the thunder in my head and ears drowned the words out. My panic made way for anger born from the hatred of captivity. With a single breath, my nose identified several scents, all male and too close. Fear and anger warred, and I voiced a single growl.
Sounds answered me, incomprehensible through the din thundering in my ears.
My rage surged. I drew in a deep breath and roared my fury. Glass shattered on the floor, and yelps penetrated through the pain in my skull. I scrambled back, my heart pounding a furious beat in my throat, which throbbed from the abuse. Weak coughs tore out of me.
I shook my head, and the ruckus in my ears quieted.
“Jesus Christ in a bucket,” a man complained. “She’s a hellcat.”
A bark of laughter startled me, and another man replied, “She’s scared out of her skin. You should count your blessings she didn’t shift during her panic. Keep back and give her a few minutes.”
“That wasn’t a scared sound, idiot. That was a ‘touch me and I’ll rip your face off’ roar. She roared,” the man who’d called me a hellcat objected.
I wanted to roar again to prove how right he was, but my voice failed me.
“Us big cats do that. It’s rather natural for us.”
I fought to catch my breath as comprehension I was free filtered in along with their conversation.
“Who?” I rasped, so hoarse I didn’t recognize my voice. It felt—and sounded—like I’d devoured rusty nails with an appetizer of glass shards.
The one who dubbed me a hell cat sighed and replied, “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to help you. We would have been here sooner, but unfortunately, my friend got a little too enthusiastic questioning the man we’d caught. He didn’t live long enough to tell us where you were.”
He said a lot of things without answering any of my questions. Panting, I squinted, distinguishing their shapes in the darkness. I glanced around, spotting the window as a pale hole in the wall. A sliver of moon hung in the sky.
Days had, in their way, slipped into weeks. I struggled to catch my breath, and the tightness in my chest alarmed me.
“Who?” I demanded in a growl.
One of the men held his hand up, silencing the other. “I’m Anatoly. I was in Charlotte when you first shifted. It was decided you would become my responsibility. As such, it means you were stolen from me.”
“I don’t know an Anatoly.” I cleared my throat so I wouldn’t cough. “Why yours?”
“I’m a Siberian tiger. You’re a tigress. As I was the highest ranked feline in Charlotte at the time of your first shift, you’re my responsibility.”
“Tiger?” I thought about it. My fur had been dark, charcoal and black. “I have black fur. I’m not a tiger.”
“Tigress,” Anatoly insisted. “From the reports I’ve heard, you possess dark fur with darker stripes and sapphire eyes the shade of deep waters.”