by Autumn Dawn
The Golden Bell
by
Autumn Dawn
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Autumn Dawn on Smashwords
The Golden Bell
Copyright © 2010 by Autumn Dawn
www.autumndawnbooks.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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CHAPTER 1
It hurt. Rain glanced over her shoulder, crouched on the gritty alley floor. The fall had skinned her palms and knees, and the wounds stung. But they were coming; she could hear them over the sounds of midnight traffic, though she didn’t try to peer into the glare of streetlights. She ran.
Breathless, trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, she forced herself into a stumbling lope. Her sweat-soaked jeans and t-shirt had turned clammy, adding to the misery. She would have loved to ditch her ragged jacket and pack, but didn’t dare; they comprised all of her worldly goods, and she needed them in the chill London fog.
Scaling the chain link fence at the end of the alley was easy, evading the snarling Doberman who went for her throat was not. With no time for regret, she gave it a hearty kick, sprinted across the lawn and jumped, grabbing the top of the ornate stone fence. She swung her legs up and slipped over, barely making it before the dog sunk teeth into her.
Another empty alley.
Stink rose to assault her nostrils, and she groaned. Thanks, Fido. If she didn’t watch it, her hunters would smell her coming. To add insult to injury, she started to sneeze. Great. Wonderful time for canine allergies to strike.
Trying to catch her breath, she moved cautiously down the white-lit brick canyon, praying she’d lost them. She sneezed again, tried to muffle it. She was so tired. The next time she fell, she might not get up.
Listening, straining her preternaturally keen ears to catch any noise, she searched for sounds of pursuit. Finding none, she slowly relaxed and sank against the chilly wall, ignoring the trash at her feet. She’d made it.
Suddenly light exploded into the alley. Deafened by the shouts of men and barking dogs, blinded by the sudden glow, Rain saw death coming and despaired.
“Wake up!”
A slap accompanied the brutal voice, jerking Rain from the comfort of darkness. Moaning, she pried open her eyes and blinked at the murky cell. She didn’t remember coming there, but she did recall being jabbed with something. Cuffs bound her wrists behind her, and her rear was planted on a hard wooden chair. Did they mean to question her? The word torture flitted across her mind, and she shuddered. Please, God, no!
Her tormenter, a scarred blighter in working class clothes, took a narrow-eyed look at her and glanced at the other man in the cell, an older gentleman in a suit. What hair he had left was iron gray, perfectly matching the winter coldness in his faded blue eyes. He looked her over and smiled without humor. “Rain, is it? Daughter of Rian Miller?”
She shivered. “Who are you?”
The smile-that-wasn’t curved his lips again. “Taught you some unusual things, didn’t he? Lock picking, shooting…how to run and how to hide.”
Nervous now, she felt the cold sweat start again. Her father had been dead for a year; killed by the very people she now suspected held her, but few people had really known him, known what he was. These people were not so blissfully ignorant.
By the chill satisfaction in his eyes, he was enjoying her torment. “I have a few questions for you, my dear. Rory!”
A tall, dark man entered at his command, favoring the gent with a cold look. “I’m not deaf, Trent.”
“Mr. Trent,” the scarred one said aggressively, stepping toward him.
Mr. Trent held up his hand, stopping his goon. To Rory he said, “Question her.”
Rory sent a cold look her way. “Question is all I’ll do. I’m getting bloody sick of your games, Mr. Trent.”
“Strive to remember what happens when you fail me,” Mr. Trent said coldly, “and remember who gets hurt.”
His lip curled, but Rory turned to Rain. Softening a little, he asked gently, “What’s your name, love?”
Rain hadn’t lived twenty-two years without seeing some good-looking men. This one, however, put them all to shame. Black hair, deep green eyes and a face to make an angel weep were temptation enough, but there was something more, something she couldn’t place. Did he wear cologne? That had to be it, for a scent of tempting power hung about him, though she’d never known a fragrance to addle her so. Just breathing it made her tired blood stir, and the longer he stood by her, the worse the sensation became. Sex in a bottle, her muddled brain exclaimed, trying dimly for a warning, but whatever it was telling her became lost in his eyes.
The goon said something to Mr. Trent. The haze she was under dulled their words, but she thought she heard the goon say, “This one’s got it bad.”
Rory smirked at her, but the scent messed with her perceptions, because her heart insisted it was an expression of sympathy. “I don’t think we’ll be needing these, will we?” he said, moving slowly around her to touch her cuffs. She felt a key slide into the cuffs and they fell away, granting her blessed freedom. Rubbing her aching arms, she felt gratitude swell. “Thank you.”
Rory looked her over. “What’s a sweet thing like you done to get yourself in this mess? Don’t you have mates who will be looking for you?”
In the background, she could hear the goon telling Mr. Trent, “I’ll bet he asks for this one when he’s done. She’d be a looker if she cleaned up, and our Rory does like to have his fun before you dispose of them.”
She heard, but the words meant nothing. So long as she could smell Rory, feel the thunder in her blood from breathing him in, nothing else mattered. “Friends…no, I have no friends.”
Rory frowned. “How can that be? A nice girl like you must have lots of friends. What about your father’s mates? Won’t they help you?”
She thought, very willing to tell him everything she knew. “I…I haven’t seen anyone since my father died.”
He smiled comfortingly. “But you know where they are, right? Those mates of his?” He glanced at Trent, then moved closer to whisper in her ear, “I can help you. Tell me where to find your father’s friends, and I can help them find you.”
The touch of his mouth against her ear sent shockwaves down her spine. Longing seized her. Just let him touch her…
“Like animals for him, I hear. Scream and scratch while he’s riding him, and beg for more, they say. Makes me wish I were the charmer. Lucky bloke.”
“Shut up! And make sure that recorder is working. We want to get every name.”
Blocking her view of the men with his body, Rory hunched down to her level, tracing the skin of her face with one finger. “Tell me the names, sweetheart. Tell me how to find them.”
It was too much. Breathless, desperate to please him, she opened her mouth. “My father’s cousin used to live in…”
An enormous blast shook the cell, obliterating her words. Screaming, she threw her hands up and du
cked her head, instinctively protecting her face. Dust clogged the air and Rory cursed as soldiers in black burst into the room, killing the goon and capturing Mr. Trent.
She didn’t spare a thought for Trent, but instantly got in front of Rory, protecting him with her body. She didn’t care what happened to her, but she had to save him.
A tall man strode through the dust, and everything stilled. He radiated command, powerful as the desert sun. Not all of his size was in his legs, either; those powerful shoulders gave her pause. His long blond hair was tied back, and though it was too murky to tell the color of his eyes, the expression in them chilled her.
But those eyes were not fixed on her. “Hello, Rory.” Cold menace vibrated in every word.
“Fallon. Fancy meeting you here,” Rory said flippantly. “Come to shoot the breeze, or is this business?”
Fallon looked at Rain, and she quickly inched back. Rory was directly behind her, but she wasn’t taking chances. “Leave him alone!” she warned the stranger.
Rory laughed. “Feisty, ain’t she? What can I do, mate? Your women all love me.”
“Move out of the way, Rain,” Fallon ordered her calmly.
Beyond the point of wondering how he knew her name and why he was here, she tensed to fight. “No! You won’t touch him! He was trying to help me.” She saw one of the soldiers inching to her left, but was too distracted by the menace in front of her to do anything.
Slowly, Fallon’s eyes lifted to Rory. “How many women has it been now, Rory? How many of us have you helped to kill?”
“He’s a liar,” Rory told her soothingly, when she shot him a quick look. “Don’t worry over it, love.”
She relaxed and glared at Fallon. “I won’t listen to you.” There was a game afoot, though she was oblivious to its rules. Somehow she was at the center, though why was elusive. Caring was elusive. In close proximity with Rory’s scent teasing her nose, it just didn’t matter.
But Rory’s distraction had proved fatal. With a sudden roar, the soldier who’d shifted to their left charged, taking Rain down in a flying tackle. Shots were fired, but she was so tangled up she couldn’t see. Twisting, the soldier managed to land on the bottom, taking the brunt of the fall, and as they landed, she saw Rory jerk. His gun discharged, the bullet striking stone, and he toppled to the floor on his back.
Rain began to scream.
Fallon’s jaw clenched as he watched two of his men trying to subdue the wild woman. Taking Rory down had taken precious time, and they couldn’t allow this. Pity she hadn’t seen the gun at her head, threatening her life, but he wasn’t surprised at her fury. The charmer’s pheromone was a dangerous thing, and she’d already been in his power when they’d arrived. A nap would do her a lot of good.
Striding to her side, he evaded her kicking foot and applied pressure to her carotid artery. In seconds she collapsed like a doll.
“Bring her,” he ordered his men. They had to get to the choppers in a hurry, before the Cult figured out their bird had flown and sent reinforcements. They wouldn’t like losing an informant, though to his knowledge the Cult had already killed most of her friends and family, thanks to her cousin’s unwilling help. Fallon was determined that the Black Charmers wouldn’t get another shot at her, even if he had to shift her off-world.
His fellow Haunts, as humans had labeled them long ago, closed in around him and their precious cargo. Females of their species were well protected, and not a man there approved of what had almost happened to her. Rory was Trent’s deviant son, and he’d had a bargain with his father. He’d used his sexual pheromones and suggestive abilities, effective only on female Haunt, to question the women. The names of other Haunt were coaxed from her, his father went on a killing spree, and Rory used the women until he tired of them. The bodies were disposed of when he’d finished.
It was reason enough to take a man’s life, and Fallon had enjoyed doing it.
They made it to the choppers, thankful that the blast had taken out the portion of Trent’s estate that had housed his troops. Fallon’s men picked off the remaining snipers. They needed no night goggles to pierce the inky night, and all of them were expert marksman.
Fallon glanced at Trent and the girl. Trent would be questioned and disposed of like the carrion he was, and Fallon had to find a safe place for the girl. Off-world was best, but he didn’t know how much she knew, or even if she’d be willing to use the gate. It was going to take time to settle her, and there was only one place he would have leisure to do that.
Rain woke in the chopper, but was wise enough to stay silent. She couldn’t have said much over the chopper’s blades, anyway, but she kept her mouth shut until they’d landed and herded her toward a sleek private jet. Dawn was beginning to lighten the horizon and a chill breeze had kicked up when she demanded, “Where are we going?”
The one called Fallon glanced at her. “Home. Wait until we’re in the air and I’ll answer your questions.”
Having no choice, she obeyed him. By his accent, he was an American, so she assumed she was going back the States. She’d been born there, but had run to the UK when her father had been taken. That gambit hadn’t worked, but it no longer mattered. Whoever these men were, she wasn’t going to get away from them easily.
Fatigue sapped what energy she had. She’d been running for thirty-six hours, and the strain was devastating. Whatever would happen next was beyond her control, and even her first sight of the inside of a private jet gave her little joy. Cold, hungry and parched, she sat where she was told and tried to ignore the smell of stale sweat and the dried dog crap still clinging to her shoe.
“Water?” Fallon handed her a bottle, which she sucked down greedily. He gave her another one.
“Bathroom?” He raised his brows in question, then gestured toward the tail of the plane.
Grateful, she made her way past the half-dozen others settled into roomy leather seats and locked herself in the bathroom. The face in the mirror shocked her. Dirt smeared her skin, and her greasy hair was half-out of her braid, hanging around her face in shaggy brown hanks. There was nothing she could do about the clothes, but she washed up, pulled her hair back into a proper tail and ignored the shadows under her eyes. It took a bit to scrub the crud off her shoe, and it was a little wet when she finished, but at least it didn’t stink. Taking a deep breath, she carried her footgear back up front and sat down.
Dinner was waiting for her. It was hot and she didn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, so she attacked it, uncaring at that point whether it was drugged or who served it. Besides, her backpack was gone, and she didn’t delude herself that her “rescuers” had come in with explosives and M16’s to collect her, only to use her for their amusement. Whatever their agenda, she was safe for the moment. After they got on the ground…she’d deal with that later.
Exhaustion hit hard. She needed to lie down, but a few facts wouldn’t kill her. “Why did you come after me?”
Fallon studied her. “We’d heard a rumor about one of our females being hunted. By the time we found your trail, the Cult was a step ahead of us. You know why we broke into the compound, they would have used your information to locate and wipe out others of our kind. Too many have died already.”
Sluggish as it was, her mind was still awake enough to connect a few dots. “Rory was a charmer. How? I was taught that only human females had the pheromone, and only one in a million, at that.” The Black Charmers had been in existence for a long time, and they were frighteningly competent at wiping out her people. They used the charmers, willing or not, to capture and control the shape shifting Haunt males, using them as informants. To her knowledge, there’d never been a male with the pheromone. Discovering him hadn’t been a pleasant experience.
Grimness tightened Fallon’s mouth. “Apparently they come in different flavors now. Our friends in the Cult are dabbling with gene splicing.”
Oh, joy. Too tired to dwell on it, she grabbed a couple of the pillows that had been laid out f
or her and arranged them, reclining her seat as much as it would go. She had very little time before sleep snared her. “Where we going?” she slurred, closing her eyes.
“Alaska. That’s where I’m based.”
November in Alaska, not exactly a thrilling thought. “Am I free to leave?”
He hesitated. “The Council of Elders will want to speak with you first.”
No, she wasn’t free, he meant. She knew what happened to anyone who was rescued from the Cult’s clutches. Once their face was known, they were bustled through the gate to “protect themselves and others”. The Cult had a worldwide network of affiliates; shape shifter-hating psychos who’d stop at nothing to see her people dead. Not that she wanted to be captured again, but she wasn’t wild about letting the council dictate where she could live. Her father had raised her to take care of herself. She wasn’t going to be dragged to an alien world, and good intentions be hanged.
Sleep sucked her down, and she went without a fight. When this thing landed, she wanted to be ready to bolt. Once they got her under formal guard, her chances of escape would sink out of sight.
It was forty below and dark, with a sharp wind blowing. Scratching her idea to run the moment her feet hit pavement, she ducked her head instead and pulled the blanket she’d been given tighter. How did people survive in this frigid climate?
A black Jeep was waiting for them. Fallon opened the door for her and she slid into the passenger side, grateful for the warmth. Had she been thinking faster, she might have thought to hit the auto-lock and attempt to steal the Jeep, but the cold and her awkward blanket distracted her. Just as well; she’d never learned to drive a stick.
Fallon slid into the driver’s seat. One look at his big body convinced her that she’d been wise not to try and run. Guys didn’t like women messing with their autos. A guy like him…she had a feeling he’d go through the window.