by A. S. Green
Ainsley spotted an approaching car in her side mirror. It came up alongside them, and she turned to her window, pounding against it, hoping the driver would notice. Frankie’s hand shot out and grabbed her hair, jerking her away.
She cried out in pain, just as Frankie pulled off the highway. Five minutes later, he turned down a residential street, through a canopy of trees. Lots and lots of trees. And by then, all she knew was pure, unadulterated hatred.
He’d killed her father. He’d killed her family’s queen. He’d almost killed them all. And she would not let him kill her, too.
He turned into a long gravel driveway that ended at a boathouse on the banks of the Mississippi. The sun was just rising over the eastern bank.
Frankie turned off the ignition and the doors automatically unlocked. Ainsley threw hers open and ran. Her feet kicked up dust and gravel as she focused on the trees. Roots, she thought. Grow. Help. Please. Something. Grow.
Nothing was happening. Please, she begged the universe, throwing all her energy into her plea.
The ground rumbled. But she didn’t have enough control of her gifts yet. She hadn’t come fully into her power. If only Alex had bonded her when she’d asked.
Frankie was on her in a second. Ainsley sucked in a breath as her knee buckled. She face-planted into the gravel, skidding forward. Her cheek burned. She couldn’t breathe. Frankie’s weight pressed down on her back. The prongs of something cold and metallic pressed against the side of her neck. There was a buzzing sound. Then…nothing. Lights out.
32
Alex checked his phone. There were no new messages, and it had been over twenty minutes. He looked up at MacConall whose eyes were narrowed on the side street. “How long did it take you to walk her up there?”
“Not this long.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t detect anything?”
MacConall’s gray eyes narrowed on the second floor windows. “Like I told ye, the janitor was cleaning, so the place reeked of bleach. That shit covers up a lot, but I think I would have sensed…something.”
“Do you want to take another lap around the building? Damn, I should've had Ainsley leave her building pass card with me.”
MacConall didn’t answer in words, but he took off at a run, his heavy boots carrying him swiftly around the corner of the building.
Alex glanced up at the windows. His phone buzzed and he let out a sigh of relief, but when he looked at the screen, it wasn't Ainsley. It was Caroline, from work.
He ignored his receptionist’s call and tried Ainsley's phone again. No answer.
When MacConall came around the opposite side of the building, shaking his head in frustration, Alex tried Ainsley's phone a third time.
This time she picked up. “Hello?”
Except it wasn't Ainsley. “Who’s this?”
“Carl. Is this your phone? I just found it in the stairwell.”
Alex clicked off and yelled for MacConall just as his phone rang again. Caroline.
“Caroline, what is it? I’m busy.”
“Ainsley’s mother is on the line, will you take the call?”
“Put her through.” Alex switched the phone to speaker, and MacConall drew in close.
A broken sob came through the phone line. “Campus security just called. Cameras caught a man pushing a young woman into a truck. It was too far away to recognize faces, but they checked the access log, and Ainsley was the only female in the building overnight.”
Alex’s hand flexed, then fisted. His territorial instincts roared to life. Someone had dared to take his mate.
“She was fighting,” her mother said, her voice breaking. “She didn’t want to go with him.”
“Were they able to zoom in on a license plate?”
“They’re sending me the video in case I recognize the truck. But you can find her, can’t you? You can…do things the police can’t do.”
The certainty in her tone gave Alex pause. He looked up at MacConall and saw his own question reflected in the hell hound's eyes. Did Ainsley’s mother know what Ian was? Did she know about the ba’vonn-shees?
There was no time for that. “Send me the video when you get it.” He rattled off his number. “And I’ll find her.”
Alex hung up the phone. He couldn’t believe he’d lost Ainsley so soon. What the hell was wrong with him? “I need to get home.”
“I’ll keep hunting.”
Alex closed his eyes, his focus impaired by his fury. He clenched his fists, tightening all his muscles until he slipped into the fourth dimension, the pressure of the tilt pulling at his joints, until he popped out in his home office.
He stormed like a bull, crashing into the corridor wall, yelling for his brothers. Some ran into the hallway from the kitchen, others tilted in from rooms farther away.
“What’s wrong? Where’s Ainsley?” Callum asked.
“They got her.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Knox growled.
“How many of them?” Finn asked.
Alex shook his head. “I didn’t see it. They must have had someone inside the building. Security is sending a video.”
“This is just like before,” Knox said. “Just when things look like they’re going to make a turn for the positive, you’ve fucked us again, McKee.”
Callum grabbed Knox by his T-shirt and threw him up against the wall. “This is nothing like before.”
Knox looked over Callum’s shoulder and raised an accusatory finger at Alex. “If you didn’t want to be chieftain you should have stepped aside.”
“Enough!” Alex barked. “We have to find Ainsley.”
“This is karma,” Knox said, persisting. “You should have done things the way they’ve always been done.”
“We’re not exactly living like it’s always been done,” Finn said. “These aren’t the highlands. And we’re merely a makeshift clan—scraps patched together.”
Alex’s teeth sharpened, and his muscles bunched, preparing for a fight. “None of this matters. Did you all feed last night? Are you ready? I don't know how this is going to go down, but you all need to be ready.”
Alex’s pocket buzzed. The room filled with dread.
He pulled out his phone and looked at the text from an unfamiliar number. He clicked it open and saw that it was a video attachment. They gathered around when he hit play, and the air stilled. Two different angles. The first was of Ainsley being wrestled through a doorway and between parked cars. The next was the front of the truck driving up the exit ramp. There was mud on the license plate. He could just see the general shape of the occupants and something swinging from the rearview mirror; it looked like a crucifix.
Alex punched his fist into the wall, buckling the paneling.
“You should have never let her out of your sight,” Knox muttered.
“This is nobody’s fault,” Callum said. “Nobody’s fault save for the asshole that took her.”
“If McKee had claimed her,” Knox said as if explaining things to feeble minded individuals, “he could be blood-tracking her right now.”
Alex’s head jerked up, his brain racing with possibilities.
“What is it, McKee?” Finn asked.
Alex’s eyes darted around the room. Was it possible?
“McKee?” Finn asked. “Did you feed from Ainsley?”
Blood-tracking was typical between mates and only because of the frequent feedings they shared; most could gauge where the other one was, just by the reaction of the mate’s blood within their own bloodstream.
“No,” Alex said. “I didn’t.”
But he’d heard her voice in his head just the other day, when Rory’d scared her at the office. He’d only tasted a drop of her blood in the powder room, but he’d heard her voice in his head. She was much farther away now. Could it work again?
“What are you thinking?” Callum asked.
“I never fed from her, but I did taste her blood.” Only a drop. This was madness. It wasn’t nearl
y enough for what Knox had suggested.
None of the brothers bothered to ask how he’d come to taste it, or what he meant exactly. None of that mattered right now.
“Was it enough to establish a connection?” Finn asked.
Alex shook his head. He hadn’t picked up anything when she was taken. But then, he hadn’t been trying to connect. He wouldn’t have thought it possible.
“Try,” Finn pressed. “Focus.”
Alex raked his hand through his hair, then he stormed down the hall to the living room. He needed room to pace. He needed to run. There was too much energy trapped in his body, he thought he might explode.
They all followed him. Alex stopped in the middle of the room. His bràithrean gathered around, encircling him.
“Focus,” Finn repeated.
Alex closed his eyes and searched his blood stream for that one drop of Ainsley’s. It took some searching. It was delicate. Floral, and easily overcome by his own—especially with the adrenaline pounding through him. But after a few minutes and more desperate words of encouragement, he zeroed in.
He felt around its edges, searched for Ainsley in its essence. That’s when he heard her voice, but it was muffled. Garbled. As if she were under water, or possibly drugged.
“I can hear her, sort of, but I can’t pick up where she is.” Sweat popped up on his brow, and at the back of his neck as he strained to strengthen the connection.
“But she’s alive,” Alastair breathed.
“Yes.” Alex was sure of it. At least for now. If that monster hurt her, he’d rip him apart.
“Can you talk to her?” Callum asked. “Can she hear you?”
Alex sent out a message. Ainsley. Can you hear me?
He felt a jolt of surprise in his veins. Was it hers, or his own sense of panic? He tried again. Ainsley. It’s Alex. Can you hear me?
A long stretch of silence filled him with dread, and then… Alex?
His body jolted, and he felt two strong hands land on his shoulders. “Steady, McKee.”
“She’s there. She’s answering my call.”
“Ask her where she is,” Knox said.
Where are you?
I don’t know, but Frankie is a fucking asshole.
Hearing her use a legitimate curse word for the first time forced some of the tension from his body, and he laughed. It was a completely inappropriate response, so he understood when he felt his bràithrean lean back in surprise. “She’s pissed off.”
“Pissed is good,” Callum said.
Alex kept his eyes closed, afraid of breaking the connection. Are you in a house? A building of some sort? The woods?
A boathouse. On the river. We didn’t drive for more than an hour. I’m in a rusty barrel.
A growl rumbled out of Alex’s chest, as feral as it was lethal.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Alastair muttered.
“She’s in a boathouse,” Alex said, relaying the information. “Somewhere fairly close.”
“I’ll do a Google Earth search,” Rory said, leaving the room.
“He stuck her in a barrel.” His heart had gone into hyperdrive. A rusty barrel likely meant an iron barrel. This guy knew how to keep Alex from getting too close. Or maybe he thought the iron would restrain Ainsley in the same way it affected him.
Fortunately, she’d had no negative reaction to the iron fence in the park. Can you breathe?
There are holes drilled in the side, but he doesn’t mean to keep me breathing for long. He’s going to roll me into the river.
Alex’s chest tightened. He knew that barrel. He’d seen it in that truck parked near Ainsley’s house. Is he near you? Can you hear him?
He felt her sigh. I can't hear anything but you.
“Do you think she could pull off a solo tilt?”
Alex’s eyes snapped open, and he looked up at Alastair’s giant, looming form. The iron barrel wouldn’t restrain her like it would him, so his suggestion would have been a brilliant idea, except that Ainsley had only tilted twice before, and he’d led her through it both times. He should have taught her how to do it. “No. But I know who took her.”
“You do?”
Alex shook his head. “I mean, not the person. I know the truck. I’ve seen it before.”
“Have you been in it?” Callum asked.
“No, but I’ve been close.”
“Close enough to be able to picture the inside?” Knox asked, his eyebrows lowering.
“No one can tilt into a moving target,” Alastair reminded them.
“The truck might not be moving if she's not in it anymore,” Finn said hopefully.
“The bastard could’ve dropped her off, stuck her in that barrel for safe keeping, then left to go get something,” Alastair reasoned. “You can’t tilt to a moving target that you can’t even fully visualize. It’s too dangerous. You’ll end up splintered into pieces.”
Alex paced to the stone fireplace, bracing himself with a hand against the mantel. He closed his eyes in concentration and hoped he hadn’t broken the connection. Ainsley? Are you still there?
He heard her gasp. I thought you left.
Never. His chest hurt at the surprise in her voice; as if he could ever leave her. Hang on, gorgeous. I'm coming to get you.
33
Finn was right. And Alastair was right. The blue pickup truck was stationary so Alex was able to tilt inside, but not being familiar with anything besides the crucifix on the inside of the truck made his landing less than pretty. A tilt always tested the limits of his bones, this time he thought he’d actually broken something.
“Fucking…” Alex sucked air through his teeth. “Shit.” He crossed his arms over his chest and squeezed his shoulders, pressed on his chest, checked his elbows, wrists, and ribs to make sure they were all intact. Then he focused his attention on the real trouble.
His left knee was already swelling, and his ankle… Could he even put weight on it?
Alex glanced at the ignition. No keys.
He reached behind him and opened the driver’s side door. It groaned loudly on its hinges, and he stopped. Listened.
He was lying horizontal on the truck seat and unable to look out the window. For all he knew, the truck was parked at a Wal-Mart. But he didn’t hear cars or people. He heard birds. Birds and the gentle ripple of water. He hoped that meant the river. Better yet, a boathouse.
With another shove, he got the door all the way open, then he contorted his body around so he’d go out feet-first. He landed on one foot, careful not to put any weight on his ankle. No one seemed to be around. The early morning air was cool and still.
The blue pickup was just as he remembered and just as in the video, its bed full of equipment with the exception of the barrel. Old deciduous trees—oak and maple mostly—provided a heavy canopy. Ahead of him stood a large ramshackle boathouse. It had to be fifteen feet square, sided in cedar planks stained a reddish brown. The roof was tin and there were small square windows spaced evenly around the top of the walls.
The door, he saw, was padlocked, which meant Ainsley’s abductor wasn’t inside. Ainsley—he hoped—still was. If he was too late…
Hobbling, Alex made it across the gravel driveway and over the weedy walkway to the boathouse door. He wouldn’t be able to unlock it, but he had no trouble wrenching the hinges right out of the wood. The door came away in his hands with a screaming groan of splintered cedar. There was just no way to do it quietly.
He tossed it aside and stepped through the doorway. Even with the sunlight streaming in, it took him a second for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw at least twelve iron barrels covering half of the space, all exactly like the one he remembered from the truck bed.
He glanced around, spotting a work bench covered in tools, a small refrigerator gently humming in the corner, an outboard motor laid out on a sheet on the floor, various nuts and bolts lying scattered around it.
Ainsley? he called without using his voice.
&
nbsp; Alex?
I’m here.
What? How? What was that noise?
I’m in the boathouse. Where is he—the guy who took you?
I don’t know. He’s been gone for a while.
Can you tap on the barrel? Let me know which one you’re in.
He listened but didn’t hear anything. Ainsley?
I’m trying. Then he heard a dull tapping sound. It felt like an itch in the center of his chest. His head jerked from the front row of barrels to the back corner of the room.
“Jesus.” He’d have to get passed at least five of them to even reach her. I’m coming. I’ll get you out.
No! It’s made of iron.
She didn’t have to tell him that, just being this close to them was starting to irritate his skin, but he couldn’t dwell on that. He gritted his teeth, turned sideways, and sucked in his gut as he slipped between two barrels in the first row.
Then, finding a bit of a gap, he rotated and slid past another, holding his arms up in the air. When he turned, his hip knocked against an edge and pain sliced through him. He pulled his arms in and his stomach muscles contracted, nearly doubling him over.
He clenched his jaw and sucked air through his teeth as the burn seared his nerve endings and screamed through his brain.
Alex?
He couldn’t answer her. He didn’t have the mental bandwidth. He was almost there. He stepped onto his bad ankle, then pulled it up short, limping onto his right. The clumsy movements sent him leaning in the other direction, and he caught his weight on the lid of a barrel.
“Arghhhhhh!” The agony nearly blinded him.
Alex!
The barrel right in front of him rocked. He was there. He’d made it. If this was anything else, he’d rip the lid right off. With this, he couldn’t even touch it.
I’ll get you out, he promised. I’ll get you out.
Alex drew in a breath, wishing he had the option of walking barefoot across hot coals. He’d take the rack, being drawn and quartered, or publicly disemboweled. But no…the sadist had put her in iron.
He bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming again, reached across the barrel and curled his fingers against the lip of the lid. The pain was intense. It shot up his arms like liquid fire. He thought he heard one of his teeth crack under the pressure. His eyes rolled back in his head. Fuck, he was going to pass out.