The Wishing Heart

by J. C. Welker

  “Woman. You hobnocker,” she spat, in no mood.

  A chuckle vibrated in his throat. “Skinner said you were a spitfire and a slippery grift.”

  Rebel stiffened as awareness caught up to her, the satchel heavy at her side. He was no officer. Even worse, this had trap written all over it. But was it Skinner’s trap, or whoever had been on the other end of that phone call—someone even more brutal? Her eyes darted about, scouting an escape. Nothing good ever happened when a girl was snatched off the streets from a henchman twice her size.

  The man glanced at her satchel. “I’ll be taking that now.”

  When in doubt, distract. “Fancy outfit just to rob me of a vase? You’re not overcompensating for something, are you?”

  “Don’t play stupid. The vessel’s not the prize. We want what’s inside it.”

  Rebel squinted. “There’s nothing inside it, you tool.”

  “Wrong answer.” He growled, sounding more animal than man, and something changed in his features. His eyes glowed amber in an extremely inhuman face.

  “What the…” She lurched back, her nose twitched at an odd scent, and dizziness emerged. Now wasn’t the time for her heart to hamper reality. “This has got to be the weirdest panic attack.”

  “No attack, unless you refuse.” The man inched closer.

  “Touch me and I’ll carve Repent on your chest.” Rebel fumbled at her belt, grasping the bone handle of her switchblade. She never actually used it on anyone, never wanted to.

  “All’s we want is the vessel,” he warned. “There’s no need for it to go there.”

  “You don’t want it to go there,” said another.

  Shadows moved out from behind the man.

  A young female appeared, followed by a male version of her, both cloaked in animal-hide coats. The twins’ blood-red hair spilled over their shoulders like lions’ manes, the girl’s pelt trimmed in fur of equal shade. As they moved, between one second and the next, they shifted into a wave of rippling fur. Bones snapped out of place, and jet-black muzzles emerged from their faces, until they formed into four-footed shapes. Their backs contorted, and slowly, bone plates elongated down their spines like an armadillo’s shield.

  They were not human. Not even close.

  Werewolves.

  “Wolves?” she voiced it aloud.

  “Lycanthrope,” the man corrected. His eyes burned like embers as his ears tapered skyward, and his vastness seemed to increase compared to the others. Obviously, the alpha. “A thief knows a thief as a wolf knows a wolf. Didn’t legends ever teach you about the big bad one?”

  Rebel felt her blood still.

  Her mind faltered trying to explain what it was seeing. She’d hoarded enough books speaking of the skinwalker tales, shape-shifters, and phantom black dogs, but none like this. Those weren’t real. They were poetic fabrications, fictional legends, fantasies which didn’t exist, because the real monsters of the world wore human faces. She had always thought her books were safer than people, but not when they had come to life. Her heart wasn’t playing tricks on her, nor had it in Skinner’s shop.

  This was real enough for Rebel.

  It gave her insides a rattle—a chain reaction flogging her body with a spark. Fight or flight. If she went on, they would surround her, taking the vase, her hope, and doing—God knows what to her. If she gave chase, she might be able to get away, because though she wasn’t well-muscled, Rebel was indeed slippery.

  Her fear batted away to let her Fingersmith brain take over. She angled her body to retreat, the switchblade clenched in her hand. The twin lycanthropes crouched, their armor-like spines rippling as guttural noises rose from their throats. If there was one thing Rebel excelled at more than lockpicking, it was escaping. One darting eye caught a glimpse of the alpha man making a move, on the verge of lunging into the air.

  Rebel bolted.

  Her feet moved before her mind could grasp where her body was taking her. She fled down the alley and turned a corner as a howl of rage resonated behind her. The sound, like nothing she had ever heard, spurred her feet to quicken their pace. Her strides, long and steady, her footfalls no louder than a beat of wings.

  Rebel’s pulse thundered at her breastbone, and she kicked back against trash cans, sending them crashing into the alley, deterring her pursuers for a moment. Another few minutes until her heart would peter out and stop her before those beasts did. She sprinted past a group of café workers smoking, through the shop’s open doorway, and into the connecting doors leading into a pub. Shop owners shouted at her in curses and the sound of broken glass followed. But no obstacle broke her path. Nothing before her was a threat, only the devils hot on her tail.

  She spared a glance behind her and caught a glimpse of dark fur. Howls echoed through the air and her adrenaline kicked up a notch, swelling her heart to a jolt.

  An idea surfaced.

  Rebel turned a corner, running out into the busy street, hoping the real world would save her. Dodging and ducking, she weaved through people on their way to work, up into Piccadilly Circus. She crossed the north side building covered in video displays and neon signs. Taxis and buses careened by. Tourists threw bread to tubby pigeons and posed for pictures in front of the statue of Eros. A child looked up at Rebel and waved as she zipped past. Surely, the wolves wouldn’t follow her into a mass of people. Would they?

  Screams rang out.

  Apparently, they would.

  People scrambled out of the way of the wolf-man, now changed back into police form with twin lycans charging on either side of him like hellhounds. Though Rebel imagined they merely appeared to others as armored canines in pursuit of a criminal.

  She gripped her switchblade as her feet synchronized to the traffic, avoiding gawking sightseers, dodging vendors and motorbikes. She pivoted around objects and people as if she were dancing on the wind, not running for her life. The satchel beat against her, the vase within tapping against her back like an invisible hand spurring her on. The frosty air set her lungs on fire. Her poor heart yelled obscenities in her skull. But she sped up with more momentum.

  Safe. She had to get to safety.

  A glinting sign came into view: Metro Station. Like all Londoners, Rebel knew her way around the Tube, but unlike them, she was acquainted with the tunnels as if she’d grown up in them. Which she had, more or less. So down the steps she flew into the Metro station, hurdling over the turnstile. She gave no notice to the flummoxed station agent who yelled at her through the glass of the booth.

  A speaker chimed, “Mind the gap.”

  But she already leaped over the gap and jumped off the platform into the mouth of the tunnel. The sound of a train pulling in and the cries of the people faded behind her as she bolted through the tunnel until she could hear nothing other than her own gasps.

  Rebel had long ago established a route system in the Underground. She had poached, lurked and fled, usually in that order, through half of the tunnels in London. Even active stations had their deserted nooks and crannies that became explorations for photojournalists and adrenaline junkies, along with being home to the city’s vagabonds and street orphans.

  Now, she hurdled between a narrow passage to another tunnel.

  A train’s horn blared in the distance. She considered slipping down the other, less appetizing tunnels, but even she hadn’t triumphed over the sewers. Finally, she collapsed against a soot-covered wall, her chest heaving. She hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s chicken snatch, and her motions were slowing, adrenaline fading. For a brief moment, she looked wildly about. On either side, the pitch-black tunnel appeared empty. Despite the roaring train horns, she could still hear the man’s words.

  Lycanthrope, a voice in her head said. You saw it for yourself.

  Dizziness worked up her neck. “Really, heart? You’re going to do that to me now?” Her ticker was having trouble performing its single function. Her pulse thundered so loudly in her ears she thought all of creation might hear it. Cer
tainly, half-human wolves could.

  A grumble came from her stomach.

  Rebel glared down at it. “Shut up. I can only deal with one disgruntled organ at a time.” She wiped her freezing nose, waiting for the dizziness to fade. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and she wished she had fingers on her fingerless gloves. The tunnels felt ten degrees colder than it was above ground. Her elbow throbbed, indicating she’d run into something hard, but she focused on the feeling of her pendant against her chest.

  Where was that divine presence watching over her now?

  Her satchel had gotten twisted around her, adding to its heaviness and the reassurance of the vase still in her possession. Questions crammed her mind. Why on earth did those creatures want it so badly? The bag felt heavier all of a sudden, as if the vase were edging her forward. Yes. She couldn’t stop to think. She held herself upright against the wall and hurried down a tunnel, rushing around the corner.

  A figure hurtled out, and she stumbled back with a cry.

  In a marvel of muscle and power, a beast crouched before her, its eyes aglow. The alpha man had changed into his full lycanthrope form. And he was colossal.

  He rose on his legs, his humped back straightened, and the gray wolf stood on his hind legs like a man. He towered over Rebel, his shadow swallowing her up, his teeth sharper than any blade. Though he stood stock-still, his burning gaze seemed perpetually in motion, and he gave a panting chuckle, indulging in the scent of her fear. She gripped her switchblade tighter. It had been a gift from Jaxon, made of a deer bone hilt, which concealed a tension wrench for lockpicking, but the blade was a mix of iron and silver.

  Hopefully that myth is true.

  “Got a surprise for you, pooch.” Rebel smiled, displaying her teeth, ready to bite. She flicked her switchblade out with a shing, the blade glinting like her own claw.

  Thanks to Jaxon’s self-defense training, she’d survived several grapples with other thieves who had wanted to get their hands on her goods, in more ways than one. She’d left them with broken noses and clutching their family jewels. But never had she needed to use her blade in a fight. It was more for show. Never had she thought she’d be brave enough, or desperate enough, to use it on a person.

  But this was no person.

  As the alpha circled Rebel, she heard another train nearing. Closer this time. His ears flattened to his head, the armor-like bones along his spine undulated, and his lips curled. A predator sighting its victim. He was sizing her up, gauging her strength, deciding on which side to attack. He scraped his claws on the tunnel wall, scoring five gashes into cement.

  “You want to keep that paw?” Rebel jabbed the knife in the air.

  His nose twitched, smelling panic spill from her pores. Rebel read his body language, seeing his left limb tense enough to broadcast his next move. She didn’t have time to run.

  He lunged—nails snagging through her bag’s strap.

  She clung to her satchel and ducked, twisting herself around, and plunged the switchblade upward into the lycanthrope’s side. Bile rose in her throat at the sickening feeling of penetrating skin. He screeched and swung at her. She felt a sear of pain as a claw ripped through her shoulder, and warm liquid spilled down her arm. In an instant, the thing was on her back, his revolting breath on her neck. She elbowed his muzzle but his serrated teeth snapped, scraping along the chain of her pendant.

  Something rose up in her. She screamed wildly—and thrust the blade.

  Flesh sizzled. As if he’d touched fire, the alpha howled. He flew off Rebel, and her switchblade went with him, his side trailing ribbons of blood. As she rolled away, her satchel snapped loose, and the vase tumbled out. Not a second passed before she stumbled to her feet and grabbed it, more afraid of losing it than being ripped apart. Her shoulder wound felt on fire, and she spun on her toes, hoping to make it to the corner.

  Another shape darted out, cutting off her escape.

  Devilish eyes glared at her from within a crimson beast. She’d almost forgotten about the twins. The wolf-boy’s tongue frothed out of his mouth, panting in eagerness, and he leaped at her. At the same time, Rebel pivoted, booting him in the head. He bounded out of reach, shaking his muzzle, and she lurched in reverse.

  But a second red beast arrived.

  The female appeared vaster than her sibling, fur silkier and her russet eyes gleaming in the darkness. Rebel might have found them beautiful if she wasn’t in danger of being turned into mincemeat. The she-wolf’s lips drew back, displaying honed fangs, and Rebel swore the girl laughed at her.

  A cavernous growl came from her right. The alpha, back on his haunches, clutched his side and changed to man form. His officer’s uniform now ripped and soiled, he seemed mildly annoyed. “No human has dared to spill my blood.” He snarled.

  “Well, I’m constantly underestimated.” Rebel bared her own fangs. But the pain in her chest was a messenger, her heart telling her to shut up or it would shut her down. The likelihood of her surviving this moment diminished to a claw point.

  As the four-legged trio inched closer, a dreaded thought came. Rebel always imagined taking her last breath among a stack of paperbacks, not hundreds of feet below London. If she died here, would anyone take notice? Would anyone come for her body? She would be just another guttersnipe. A lost girl with no one who truly cared if she lived or died. The horror of that threatened to pummel her heart into a bottomless pit of darkness. She’d never seen death up close, and now it encircled her.

  No. Rebel couldn’t die here.

  Her heartbeat turned to thunder, and her blood boiled with enough strength to give her one last shebang. She wondered if she could throw herself toward the train tracks. She could jump just in time to clear the train and have it cut them off from her. Her gaze darted to the right as the train’s horn neared, and she took a step backward, preparing to fly.

  In one fluid leap, the wolf-boy sprang.

  At the same time, Rebel swung the vase. Metal connected with a skull, a whimper followed by a human yelp. The she-wolf reared up, kicking her forelegs in rage. Rebel hissed as a claw caught her cheek, close enough to take out her eye, if she hadn’t lifted the vase in time to block it. Another talon ripped her forearm, tearing more flesh. Stars pricked at the edge of her eyes. Her stomach twisted. Her heart skipped.

  The beasts were on her.

  The tunnels broke Rebel’s screams, splintering them into an echo. Her world shattered into a maelstrom of fangs and fur, beating and tearing. Beastly limbs so powerful she couldn’t break free. All at once, she saw how her life was going to end.

  A clawed hand wrapped around Rebel’s throat, but before her world slipped into darkness, she heard something within the vase. Someone was calling her name.

  Chapter Four

  “Is it dead? Can’t I have a taste?”

  “Don’t be dense, Vandal. She’s a guttersnipe. They must taste like despair.”

  “Despair and nectar, honey and cream, dreams and stars…”

  “And wishes.” A female chuckled. “Pitiful. Humans and their fragility.”

  Rebel’s eyes fluttered to the droning of voices coming from somewhere above her. But her unconscious pulled her back under, filling her mind with a deluge of flashing images, one after the other. An inferno of smoldering dragons. A halo of fur and lifeblood drizzling over her like raindrops. Her long-lost mother’s eyes, reflecting her own. Passageways and tunnels. A blackened heart beating out of her chest. Wishes flying above her, riding on clouds…

  “Not too fragile. The bandit did bruise your ego, Styria.”

  “My ego? And how’s that cracked skull of yours?”

  A huff. “The human’s right hook was just an oversight—”

  “Children, stop toying with your meat.”

  The voice awakened Rebel’s senses, remembering it, and her muscles tensed. The images had stopped, and she wondered if she was dead. With a groan, she reached up to her head, but her hands wouldn’t budge. Fear sparked lights behind
her eyelids as she felt thorny rope binding her wrists together. Her hands were tied behind her back. Toying with your meat. Nausea roiled in her stomach, and she twisted against the rope, releasing pain up her shoulder. Nope. Not dead. Pain meant she was still breathing. It also meant she might soon become a meal, which she wasn’t pleased to hear about.

  A boot kicked her leg. “Get up, pigeon.”

  Every inch of Rebel ached, as if an elephant had been using her as a cushion. Her temple pulsed from a wound, surely growing into a beautiful bruise. As she opened her eyes, her vision blurred, then focused on the three forms hovering over her. The twins and the alpha man were now in human form, adorned in their pelts.

  “Scrawny thing, isn’t she?” Vandal chuckled. “For doing so much damage.”

  Styria folded her arms, her russet curls spilling over her coat and creamy neck. “Figured she was a dryad, but no worthy Sidhe would adorn themselves like that.”

  Rebel blinked, her hands and feet bound. Her mouth tasted of copper. She’d split her lip. Not sure when. Once she turned her head, her bloody hair fell into her eyes, and she gazed up at a stone ceiling. An overpowering smell of sweetness, animal, and earth filled her nostrils. They were in some type of chamber, a lockup or prison. How long had she been here? Hours? Days? Shackles protruded from the walls, darkened by what was most certainly blood. Other things dangled from the ceiling, covered in spikes that screamed torture device. On the main wall, a skull wearing a crown shaped like a half-moon had been scorched into the stone.

  “I said, up.” Again, a foot nudged Rebel.

  Everything turned fuzzy.

  She wondered if the drumming in her head was real. Falling in with the stuff of nightmares had obscured rationality. Her mind kept telling her it was a delusion, but everything around her said otherwise. Claw marks trailed up her jeans, and her shirt was stained crimson, showing how she’d been brutalized. She clenched her eyes shut, not believing the situation. Threaded Dragons. Lycan Police. She’d fallen down the cracks of London into some delusional world where she would soon be turned into a wolf’s happy ending.