by Kayle Wolf
Well, he’d just have to talk to her. He’d avoid the stuff about not wanting to live if it wasn’t with her, of course—someone as kind-hearted as her would stay with him out of pity, and that was the last thing he wanted. But if she felt anything for him that compared with what he felt for her… then they owed it to themselves to give it a go. And he’d be honest. Finally, he’d be as honest as he’d wanted to be almost since they’d met, almost since those golden eyes had fallen on him in that crowd of shifters. He’d tell her everything. About his family, about the murder, about what he intended to do to Val. She was as wise as she was beautiful. She’d be able to help him, he knew.
He tapped softly on the door before he stepped through it—and that was the first sign that something was wrong. The door swung open, as though he’d left it ajar. But he knew for a fact that he hadn’t because he’d worried about the loud ‘click’ that it made waking up Helena. He moved into the room, the two plates of food balanced in his right hand and on his right wrist, his left hand free. The room was empty. She was gone from the bed, and the bathroom was empty, too. Art put the plates down on the desk, staring around the room for any suggestion of what had happened here. The bed was wildly askew, with rumpled bedding and pillows thrown around the space—but they’d been that way since last night. He could feel his heart pounding sickly in his chest, his breathing trying to get ragged, and he smoothed it, controlled himself.
There. The window. It was open—he moved over to it, pushed back the rose-patterned curtains. There was damage to the window frame, as though something had been shoved out of it. Sure enough, he looked out the window down to the ground, where the fly-screen from the window lay amid a showering of wood splinters. And there, on the window frame. His stomach lurched. There were a few smears of blood. Art raised a trembling hand to the still-damp smears of blood, confirming that they were the exact size and shape of fingertips. As though someone with blood on their hands had grabbed desperately at the window frame while being dragged through it.
Grim certainty pooled in his gut. Helena was gone, dragged out through the window by what he could only conclude were the dragons who’d captured her the first time. They must have followed them from a distance, waited for a chance to get hold of her when Art was out of the room and not a threat.
He turned back to the empty bed, his eyes blank, his mind a sea of roaring static. It felt just like coming up the driveway to his home to see the porch light was still off. It felt just like driving away, the flames climbing higher in his rear-vision mirror. It felt just like the grim certainty that he was going to tear King Val limb from limb and make all his subjects watch—if he hadn’t torn them apart first.
Art turned, picked up his jacket and walked out of the room and down the stairs. He felt, for the first time in his life, a curious harmony with the Wildness that dwelled in the center of him. For once, he felt no need to control it, to force it down, to stay on top of it. He and the bear wanted the same thing.
Blood.
Chapter 11
Jack was rubbing his jaw. Helena sat opposite him in the same hated van that had dragged her from her home the previous Sunday, watching him with murder in her eyes. There was a lot of torn skin on her knuckles, but there was a burning satisfaction in the sting of it, the way the blood was still dripping from her fingertips. There may have been three of them, but this time she’d been ready. She’d given as good as she’d got. Maybe even worse. Danny was in the front seat with Harry, the driver. She’d smashed his face so badly he’d had to stagger away. Couldn’t face her, even now. Couldn’t even sit in the back of the van and gloat. Maybe she’d broken his nose. That would be a good result, she thought, hanging savagely onto that feeling, that burning rage, that vindication at having done harm to her captors. It was the only thing stopping her from breaking down in tears.
She’d just woken up when they came. She’d been dozing on the very edge of sleep for a long time, listening to the comforting sounds of Art moving around in the room, probably thinking he was being very quiet. Helena had almost sat up and called him back to bed—but she’d just been too comfortable. And it wasn’t as though she hadn’t earned a rest… both of them had, with the athletic evening they’d shared together. She’d blushed a little as she dozed, a smile creeping across her kiss-roughened lips as memories came back to her. They’d certainly made up for lost time, hadn’t they? Then she’d heard the click of the door, and a little bit of concern had flared in her chest… immediately banished by the discovery of a chocolate wrapper on her pillow. He’d be back soon. With food. Two of her favorite things, she thought, a grin spreading across her face. She’d gotten out of bed and stretched a little, then grabbed her clothes and dressed quickly, shivering in the cool air. Maybe he’d want to pull her clothes off her again, who knew? For now, she needed to be warm.
That had been when the window had made a strange crunching noise. She’d turned, frowning a little—had a bird struck the window, or something? But then it had crunched again—and a man had tumbled into the room, the tell-tale signs of scales vanishing from his body. White scales, not iridescent like hers, but undeniably draconic. And as he straightened, the last of his scales vanishing, she looked into his white eyes and saw the man who’d kidnapped her.
But this time, she’d been ready. No hesitation, no distraction—only white-hot anger, condensing to a point right behind her eyes. He was grinning at her, smug, as though waiting for her to wail in shock, to panic, to seek out her bear protector—but he’d underestimated Helena, underestimated the fury that had been building under her surface. And he’d underestimated how much boxing practice she’d done by herself on those long afternoons in the palace with nothing better to do with herself.
The first punch hit him hard, a left hook that crunched into his temple and ground along his eyebrow. The right followed, stronger again, her heel turning as she pivoted her hip to put the full force of her over six-foot frame behind the blow. That one got him on the nose with a delightful crunching sound, and by the time he had his hands up around his head, the blood had started to run. Pressing her advantage, she moved in close and rose onto her left toes to whip her right leg around in a savage side kick that with any luck would break a rib, or at least wind him. The air rushed out of him, and he staggered to the side, fury on his face.
That had been when the tide of the battle had turned. His friends came in through the door behind her, fanning out to surround her. None of them had weapons. She rolled her eyes, realizing they’d thought it would be just as easy to capture her this time as it had been by the river.
“What’s the matter? Don’t know what to do when your victims fight back?” she snarled, fists raised. Danny, bleeding copiously from the nose, rushed at her—and at the same time, the two men behind her closed in as well. She got a few more good strikes in, felt the skin on her hands beginning to give way under the onslaught, but it wasn’t long before the three of them had overpowered her, pinned her arms behind her back, shoved a wad of fabric in her mouth and taped it there with duct tape that she couldn’t remove. Her hands were bound, behind her back this time, and though she struggled and screamed, no sound escaped through the gag. All she had to do was fight, she thought desperately, all she had to do was stall long enough for Art to get back from breakfast, and then it might be a fair fight… she grabbed wildly at the window as they pulled her through it, sensing but not fully comprehending that the men were transforming. Out here, in broad daylight? But as she looked out at the view from the window, her heart sank. Sure, they were in the middle of town, but behind the building were only trees. A beautiful view, but it had also allowed for a seamless kidnapping.
There were dragon claws around her body, and she gritted her teeth, not wanting to struggle in case they dropped her. Advanced shifter healing or no, she didn’t want to get dropped from this height. The limits of their human bodies hadn’t been fully explored, but dying as a human was very low on her to-do list. She tried to get a
good look at her captors as they flew, their wings beating much more quickly than hers usually did, even at low altitudes. Tiny, she realized with shock. They were barely bigger than horses, these dragons. And even the weight of her modest frame was too much for them to carry for long—it was more of a controlled glide down into the forest, where they shifted back and started marching her through the woods. She’d expected them to fly her all the way back to the festival, but she realized with a shock of amusement that even three of them weren’t strong enough to do that. No wonder they’d driven a van up to capture her! They were puny!
The gag had come loose during the flight, and she spat it out and spoke quickly before they could replace it. “You guys are adorable. Teacup dragons!”
It earned her a hard blow to the side of her head from the one called Danny, who was nursing his bleeding nose. It sent her staggering, pain lancing through her skull, but it had been more than worth it, even though it made them grab her and stuff the gag back into place. That was enough. Just to have gotten a stab in—made them feel small, even for a minute. Made them feel the way they’d made those captive women feel.
The van had been parked just off the main road, and they’d shoved her into the back of it before setting off, the rocking and shaking motion horribly familiar. But this time was different. This time she wasn’t frightened, confused, terrified that nobody knew where she was. She had complete trust in Art. He would come for her. He’d find the hotel room empty, see the broken window, find the traces of blood she’d left by deliberately grabbing the side of the window frame on their way out. He’d put two and two together. No doubt they were taking her back to the festival—though they didn’t seem too keen on chatting with her, taunting her like they had the first time, she could put the pieces together. Perhaps her ‘purchaser’ had sent them. They seemed to be his sworn men, after all. Art would figure it out, and he would come for her.
If she didn’t break out first, of course. She’d find a way. She’d have to. And this would give her an opportunity to figure out what had happened to the other women, to find a way to save them. The festival was running for a week or so, from what she’d learned from carefully listening to the way the guards had talked about their shifts. Hopefully, that meant that the poor women who’d been sold at the auction a few days ago were still on site. Helena shuddered to think of what they’d been subjected to so far. A part of her wished she and Art had turned back the minute they’d cleared the camp, gone back to break those women out of captivity and to hell with the consequences. But she knew they wouldn’t have succeeded.
The shudder seemed to have been misinterpreted by Jack, who scowled at her.
“Don’t you dare try to complain you’re cold, you malevolent bitch. Do you have any idea the trouble you caused us? Your new master’s furious. Great first impression you made.”
She rolled her eyes. If she hadn’t had a mouthful of cotton, she’d have spat at him.
“There were better ways to play this. For all we knew, you’d been kidnapped. You could’ve played nice. Could’ve welcomed us. We’d have blamed that ugly brute of a bear you were with, taken you home nice and gentle. But no, you had to fight.”
She bristled at that description of Art. He seemed to sense it, and he leaned in, his eyes gleaming.
“Oh, you got attached to that ugly brute, did you? I hope he didn’t put his filthy paws on you. Not when King Val paid so much to have you unmarked.”
She turned away from him—and he laughed, an ugly sound that went on for far longer than was comfortable. The van ride wasn’t long, this time. A couple of hours, or so—it was hard to measure time with so much anger pounding through her body. The collar was warm around her neck, and she knew it was a result of how badly her body wanted to shift, to take its most deadly form and tear these men apart. Why are we still human? Her heart seemed to question her, her pulse dancing in her eyelids. Why haven’t we taken to the air and torn this scum apart?
They frog marched her up the main path, the one she remembered from the night they’d first arrived. This time, though, it was midmorning, and the path was thick with shifters, most of whom leered at her as she strode along the path, head held high. Most of them were men, she noticed. Well, that was no surprise. Were the women not allowed to attend, perhaps? Or did they avoid it out of distaste for what went on there? Either was reasonable. She was glad she’d had time to clothe herself that morning because the idea of these men’s eyes on her was repulsive even with her skin covered.
So the festival continued, despite the chaos Art had caused that first day. Well, not for long. He’d be here for her soon—or her brothers would. Perhaps both at once. Wouldn’t that be a sight to see! A bear and a dragon, fighting side by side. She didn’t let herself consider the unthinkable—that her brothers had visited the festival in her absence, been repelled by the barbaric things occurring there, and flown home without ever realizing that she was here. No. No sense losing hope. She’d fight. She’d fight to the very end.
After all, there were a few conversations she wanted to have with Art, and she couldn’t do that if she was locked in some runt of a dragon’s private sex dungeon.
They took her down into the same damp, hideous room of cells they’d stored her in the first night—but this time there was no need to march down a lane of cells. The room was, from what she could tell, completely empty. They put her into the closest cell to the stairs and locked the door. This time, they didn’t remove her gag or her bindings. It was uncomfortable, having her wrists wrenched behind her like this, but she’d rather dislocate a shoulder than indicate that they’d gotten to her in any way. So she sat regally on the edge of the cot and stared at the wall. Don’t give them the satisfaction. That was the key. Stay strong.
“King Val’s out on a hunting trip,” Jack leered at her through the bars. “But we’ve sent word that his new pet has been brought home. He’ll be here for you soon enough. You’d better think about how you’re going to greet him. It might be the difference between life and death. Or maybe he won’t give a shit. None of my concern.”
She sat there, still as a statue, until he grew tired of taunting her and stomped back off up the stairs. Once he was gone, the place was in darkness, the only light coming from a dingy little bulb suspended above the stairs. Helena focused on her breathing, the method Art had explained to her of keeping control of his feelings, keeping his bear under control. Her shifting had never been something that was out of her control, but at the moment she certainly had some emotions that she could do with calming. Breathe in, breathe out. Nothing but this moment. Nothing to do but sit here, and wait. A plan would come to her. An opportunity for escape, for an attack, for something. Something would happen. Art would come. Her brothers would come. Someone would come.
They had to.
Chapter 12
He checked out of the hotel. He had just enough of his wits about him to do that. The woman had been nothing but kind to them, he could at least ensure she wasn’t actively the worse for their presence there. He made up some story about Helena hearing from some friends at the last minute who simply insisted they stay with them, thanked the woman warmly for putting them up, and gave her the rest of the money he had. It was twice the cost of the room, and her eyes widened as he handed it to her, but he refused all of her gentle objections to the size of the tip. There was nothing left in the world he needed money for. Just his claws, his teeth, and his fury. That was all that was required of him now.
Art walked away from the bed and breakfast, his back straight, his body buzzing with adrenalin, with nerves, with anger. With the kinds of emotions that would usually have him sinking his awareness into his breath, into the cool air on his skin, on anything to keep him present, grounded, and human. But being human wasn’t going to help him in this situation. All being human had done was a half-assed job of saving Helena from the dragons who’d captured her. A half-assed job of getting revenge for the deaths of his family. Being human had s
topped him from killing King Val and putting an end to his heinous community once and for all. He had no time for it.
He could feel the prickling of fur running up and down his body, and he gritted his teeth, lengthening his stride. Not yet. Not until he cleared the tree line. It wouldn’t do for someone to see him. If a single wolf spotted him transform, he’d be hunted down like a feral animal. And fair enough, too. He intended to become a feral animal. Because that was all he was, in the end, wasn’t it? Noah had known the truth. For all that Noah had coached them in controlling themselves, in finding their balance, in learning how to let the emotions that led to the shift come and go like the tides without affecting them… for all of that noble training, Noah’s last act as a living man had been to let the bear in. Noah had died in his bear form, not in his human form.
And adopted or not, Art had always been his father’s son.
What did he know about his enemy? He knew where they were, that was for certain. He’d always had a good sense of direction, and the direction of the settlement glowed on his internal compass. He knew how to get there. What else? He knew they were fast. They’d have had to be fast, to have killed seven of his family members before they’d been able to transform. So he wouldn’t give them the chance. They’d seen his human face already, it wasn’t as though stealth would be of any use here. He’d go in, guns blazing. All twelve foot of furious brown bear, beating down their doors. Use himself like a weapon, target the settlement then let himself go. That was all he needed. That was as much planning as was necessary. And though he was a fast runner in his human form, he knew he was faster on four legs. Much faster. And besides, he’d had more than enough of being human.