Jaws won over flesh. With a bloody gush, a chunk of flesh ruptured and Hannah found herself airborne. The man's agonized bellow filled the room, competing with the piercing alarms. While in flight, she twisted about and landed square on all four feet. She spat the hunk of raw meat from her mouth onto the floor. As a predator, she hungered, but her humanity overrode her primal nature at least with regard to this one thing. Cannibalism revolted her.
With time running out fast, she fought off the press of panic. She swiveled her head, assessing her surroundings. She was close to the open doorway the guard had come through. From the hallway, men's voices and pounding footsteps heralded the approach of more goons.
She spotted the dropped pistol a couple feet away but had to pass. As a fox, she couldn't shoot it. If she'd been a woman, she would've snatched it up in a heartbeat. In the middle of the study, the guard gripped his injured arm with his good hand—leaping and yelling—while blood spurted from his unbound wound.
On the far side, the French doors leading to the balcony stood wide open. The coyote—Silver—had gone that way with her prize. By now, he would be long gone, taking the box with him. She doubted she stood a chance of catching up with him.
But—
Her darting gaze locked on the dropped cell phone which lay in the middle of the room while the guard danced, coming perilously close to stomping on it. Quick as a flash, Hannah darted across the room. She wove between the Russian's legs and pounced on the device. As soon as she secured a good grip with her jaws, she sprinted for the balcony, her long tail flying behind her.
Behind her, more loud shouts accompanied the arrival of other guards. Just as she crossed the threshold onto the balcony, a gun fired. Hannah jumped damn near clean out of her skin. She flew onto the balcony, gathered herself for a single bound, and cleared the railing in a high leap. From there she plummeted one story—straight down.
During the precious moment of freefall, she relaxed her agile frame and spread her limbs catlike so they absorbed the impact when she landed. The green grass of the well-manicured lawn helped too, and she was thankful to have cleared the manicured hedge that surrounded the perimeter of the house. In the distance, guests had begun to scatter from the concert area, moving across the grounds in panicked clusters. The chaos and confusion made it all that much easier for a small red fox to scurry unnoticed across the yard. In short order, she reached the perimeter—a high, ivy-covered fence that was too tall even for her, a spry red fox, to leap over.
Hannah underwent another swift shift from fox to human. Even fully nude, her athletic ability far surpassed that of any human. Possessing hands and feet enabled her to scale the thick concrete wall in mere seconds. Her muscles burned with exertion, especially in her arms and shoulders, but she didn't dare slow down. As she crossed the top, her stomach caught on a jagged metal point that cut deep into her skin. She released a raw cry, but she powered through and retained her bite hold on the cell phone. With an immense effort, she kept going—flung herself over the summit. She fell again, but at least it was a shorter drop this time. Mid-fall, she shape changed again to a red fox.
She hit the ground running and sprinted away, flying on all fours. Her hot breath blew puffs of steam on the chilly evening air. Hannah had grown up in Seattle and preferred a colder climate than the two or so months of winter that Southern California offered.
It took her a couple minutes to reach the paved roadway. Malkin's estate was located at the top of the peak, so it was all downhill from there. Every quarter mile or so, a hidden driveway marked the gated entrance to yet another multi-million-dollar estate. In full daylight, a red fox carrying a cell phone would've raised eyebrows; however, the manicured streets of Beverly Hills were quiet on Friday night. No one paid her any attention, and even if she were noticed, the racket coming from the Malkin Estate was all that much more interesting. About halfway down the hill, a pair of police vehicles passed with their lights on but no sirens, heading in the direction she'd come from.
Even at her top speed, it took her a good twenty minutes to reach the commercial shopping center where she'd left her battered little Honda Civic. The multitude of cars in the parking lot of the twenty-four-hour grocery store provided the perfect camouflage. Closer would've been nice, but she'd have risked having her vehicle towed—along with the change of clothing she had stashed in the backseat.
She crossed the busy six-lane road at the crosswalk where a group of stoned teenagers depressed the button to trigger the signal. In exchange for their assistance, she endured their snorted laughter and brilliant zingers such as "In Beverly Hills, even the foxes have cell phones!" and "Man, that's far out!" Anything was better than risking her life to dart through heavy traffic like a suicidal squirrel.
The geography of the parking lot lent itself better to stealth. As soon as she reached the first parked vehicle, Hannah traveled beneath rows of cars, emerging into the open only when she had to cross empty spaces or aisles. She crouched beside her little silver hatchback and listened intently with her big ears perked. Once she was confident no other people were nearby, she performed a rapid shift to human. She retrieved the small magnetic case attached to the underside of her car, used the keys pulled from the case to unlock the car door, and then scrambled into the back. As a matter of habit, she always kept a change of clothing and an extra pair of shoes in her vehicle. If there was one thing she'd learned in her twenty-four years—finding herself inconveniently naked proved over-and-over again to be a truism of life as a shapeshifter.
Despite the cramped area, she managed to hastily pull a flowing sundress over her head and tuck her feet into a pair of strappy sandals. It helped that as a human, she possessed many of the traits of her fox form: small and sleek, lithe and limber. Thankfully, the gash on her stomach had already healed due to two full shifts. Not so fortunate—so much shape changing in such a short amount of time had left her starving. Hastily, she gathered her long hair into a ponytail and bound it with a scrunchie. Her naturally curly hair looked messy no matter what.
Clutching the car keys in one hand and the all-important cell phone in the other, Hannah climbed into the front. Just as she settled into the driver's seat, her stomach produced a loud, cranky gurgle. She grimaced and cast a longing glance toward the fast food place across the lot. She'd have loved nothing better than to make a pass through the drive thru for a hot, calorie-dense snack, but the clock was ticking.
Every passing minute widened the distance between her and a certain low-down, no-good coyote who'd swiped the box that she'd stolen from Malkin. Disabling the sophisticated security system required all her skill and discipline. Damn it, she'd worked hard to attain that prize—it was rightfully hers. Yet, it'd been in her possession for only a couple seconds before Silver snatched it away from her. Her pride smarted from the humiliation. She intended to get it back.
"Time for your comeuppance, Mr. Coyote. I'm going to get you—payback plus some..." Intent on revenge, she bent over the stolen cell phone and swiped her fingertip across the screen. She fully expected to have to hack the password, so disappointment swept through her when she found it unprotected. What was it with this guy? Thus far, he'd given her his name and practically handed her his phone. She'd hoped for more of a challenge, but still, she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
An all-business attitude dictated she should go straight to the contacts but irresistible curiosity got the better of her. She bypassed the directory, pulled up his photo album, and spent the next few minutes flipping through pictures—a lot of them. Silver was in about half of them—from the content, he played guitar and had a penchant for heavy sterling rings on every finger. In every last one, Silver wore some variation of a smirk, smile, or grin. The joy reached his eyes and radiated from him in a palpable aura. The other people were shiny, smiling sorts—artistically scruffy in the manner of musicians and vagabonds. Whoever he was, he had friends.
A pang thumped in her gut, and she tried to pass it off as
hunger, but it was a lie. No mistaking the sour grapes of jealousy. Her entire life, Hannah had only had two people—her sister and her grandma. Her few attempts to reach out and form attachments had ended in unmitigated failure. Heartache.
With a soggy inhalation, she blinked away stinging tears and closed the photo album. As she knew only too well—appearances were deceptive. No man who looked that good could be trusted. No matter how charming or handsome, the coyote-shifter possessed the heart of a craven conman lurking beneath his suave exterior. His facade masked a sociopath who'd left a woman handcuffed in the lair of a dangerous Russian oligarch. She mustn't doubt or allow herself to be fooled even for a second.
The contact directory yielded a myriad of names and numbers. She reviewed his call history and found one name in particular kept repeating—Ursula. A girlfriend maybe? Or his sister? Whoever Ursula might be, Silver called her at least once a day and texted even more frequently. The messages periodically cited names—Disco, Oz, Cheyenne, and Branwen—and also referenced "the band". If memory served, she recalled groups of coyotes were known as bands, but the photographs and periodic mentions of gigs in various diverse locations made her think the matter might be even more literal than that. Silver belonged to a rock band.
On a pensive inhalation, Hannah selected Ursula and pulled up her profile picture. The heavy-set, middle-aged woman in the image had to be at least twenty years his senior—more likely a mother or aunt than a lover. It bugged her that it mattered to her whether Silver had a girlfriend. At the same time, she acknowledged it as yet another reason to be wary of Silver's charms. One brief meeting—a single fleeting kiss—and he already had her hooked.
She called the number and waited with bated breath while it rang. A woman with a thick Russian accent, presumably Ursula, picked up on the third buzz—she shouted over the din in the background.
"Damn it, Silver. Where are you? The band is supposed to be on stage in fifteen minutes—" A loud thunk interrupted the woman's diatribe, and the hubbub of voices cut off. "You're late again—"
"Um, I'm not Silver."
The other woman fell silent for all of a startled second, and then commenced with demands. "No? Then who are you?"
"Vixen." The lie slipped comfortably off her tongue even though the nickname wasn't in keeping with her personal sense of aesthetic. The alias, however, had two things going for it. For one, it was accurate; and second, it fit with the sort of monikers this band of were-coyotes employed as part of their culture. To get close enough to recover the box, Hannah needed to fit in—or at least seem to.
"Vixen, huh?" Ursula's disdainful snort conveyed her assumption. "Vixen" had just been lumped in with various sordid bar floozies and groupies who slept with the band.
Perfect.
Hannah slapped a wide, stupid smile on because she found it helped her best-bimbo voice. She'd always been a method actor at heart. "Yeah. Say, is Silver there? We met in a bar—"
"You're calling me from Silver's phone. How could he be here?" Ursula's tone hardened with impatience verging on intolerance. Also perfect. The dumber the other woman believed Vixen to be, the easier fooling her would be.
"Well, because..." Hannah paused for a loud split-second. Not too long because she wanted maximum effect without giving the woman time to think. "Because he left in a hurry, and he forgot his phone on the table which is why I have it!" She added a vacuous giggle. "Is he there? I need to figure out how to get it back to him."
"No, he's not here."
"Oh, well, hmm..." Hannah waited; her every muscle tensed, as a fox about to spring straight up with a hound hot on her heels. A couple swift swipes of her finger brought up the browser.
Hesitation ensued, and then Ursula said slowly, "The band is playing tonight at Club Scathe."
Hannah typed with her thumbs, hit enter, and stared at the result. "On Hollywood Boulevard?" She performed a quick mental calculation, estimating drive times and Friday night traffic. A glance at the clock confirmed it was already ten fifteen.
"Yes, on Hollywood Boulevard," Ursula replied stiffly.
"When does the gig start?" Hannah asked.
"In fifteen minutes."
Hannah snorted, forgetting she was supposed to be a dumb—and in her own imagination—blonde bimbo. "Well, he's gonna be late."
"Thank you so much, Miss—" The woman dropped a few choice words in Russian. "Sweetie, what did you say your name was?"
"Call me Vixen."
The woman laughed. "Vixen, that is lovely. I'll bet you're a beauty to match your name, yes?"
"Oh yeah, I'm a fox." Literally. Inexplicably, heat swept her face. Her hand flew to her cheek—was she blushing? "Look, I'd like to return Silver's phone. Is there someplace I could send it?" An odd burst of guilt assailed Hannah, and suddenly, she couldn't stand to utter another lie. Ursula seemed like a good person who deserved better.
"Mmm, well, you could mail it, but the band doesn't stay in one place for long—"
"I can drop it off at the front desk," Hannah said with more urgency than the matter warranted. She winced with immediate regret, fearing that she'd just sabotaged herself out of niceness. She needed to get that box back.
Ursula chuckled, low and sultry. "You like Silver that much, hmm? Maybe you'd like his room number so you can return the phone in person."
Her face caught fire, so hot she would've sworn her cheeks were ablaze. "Thank you. That would be nice."
The Russian woman engaged in another round of husky laughter, and then provided the hotel address and room number. She concluded by saying, "When you first called, I thought you were another of his bludnitsy, but I can tell—you're a smart lady."
"Thank you," Hannah muttered, on the verge of dying of shame over deceiving such a good, kindly, insightful woman.
"You will be good to my Silver. See to it he gets what he deserves. That boy, he is like my own son. I am his mama bear." Ursula added a few words in Russian. Her fervency sent chills down Hannah's spine.
"I promise. You have my word." After the fact, she caught herself raising her hand in a pledge.
"Thank you. Bless you. Goodbye."
"Bye." With a grimace, she ended the call. She reached across to the glove compartment and got out her Glock pistol—a smaller model sized to fit a woman's hands.
Yeah, she'd see to it he got what he deserved. In spades.
Chapter Four
Silver sprinted toward Club Scathe's side entrance where Cheyenne, the huge werewolf who served as the band's roadie and driver, kept watch. Throbbing music poured forth, confirming what he already suspected: Coyote Hustle had gone on stage without him.
"You're late." Cheyenne said, a throaty rebuke. He pressed the door open wider and flattened himself against it to make way.
"No kidding?" Silver bounded over the stairs in a smooth leap. He pivoted on the landing, turned sideways, and squeezed past Cheyenne. As he passed, he threw up his hand for a flying high five.
Cheyenne grunted in harsh negation. His throat was a ruined mass of scars, damage that extended to his vocal chords. He could speak, but speech pained him, so he tended to stay silent. The roadie raised his arm and their palms smacked together.
To Silver's experienced ear, each musician's style was as distinctive as a fingerprint. Disco's husky baritone, the band's bass guitarist and backup singer, belted out the lyrics to their opening song. He effortlessly identified Oz on drums; however, he didn't recognize the substitute guitarist. Late for one song and they'd already replaced him. Fuck, that stung.
"Branwen's subbing in for you on guitar," Cheyenne said in a gravelly voice. From his pained grimace, the explanation cost him.
"Thanks, man." Relief washed over Silver. Branwen played keyboard. He hadn't even known she knew guitar.
"Better go before Disco makes it permanent."
"Yeah, no shit." Silver hurried on his way.
Backstage was an obstacle course of people and props. Ahead, two members of the stage crew carry
ing a sawhorse passed in front of him. At a full run, Silver dropped and slid beneath it. He popped upright and jumped straight up, sailing over the loaded trolley in his path.
"Hi, Silver. Looking good." Julie, a pretty blonde, dropped a wink and a nod.
"Thanks, love. So are you." He pivoted, flashed his sexiest smile, and ended the spin in stride.
"Watch out!" Julie called after him. "Denise is pissed!"
"I can handle Denise."
Silver bounded up the stairs to the back of the stage itself. The club's manager, Denise, a svelte brunette who wore a spiked collar and black dress, met him behind the curtain with his guitar. From the way she thrust the instrument at him, he counted himself lucky she hadn't bashed him over the head.
"You owe me an extra set, Silver—" Denise muttered ominous threats while she fitted a wireless microphone to him.
"No worries. We'll play two."
"Three, and next week you're on time or don't bother showing at all." Denise flicked the microphone on and shooed him on his way.
Silver dashed onto the stage just as the band struck the opening chords to the next song. He banked to slow down and launched into a guitar riff as he slid across the platform, turning his arrival into a theatrical flourish. The rest of the band didn't miss a beat. They kept the music going and their eager audience whooped and hollered in appreciation.
The band played for the next hour without a break. Coyote mysticism elevated their music to magic that held their audience spellbound. Silver always poured everything he had into the performance, an all-consuming effort. By the time the break rolled around, he verged on exhaustion. He downed a bottle of water and paced while the crew rolled out Branwen's keyboard for "Spiteful Lovers", a duet she sang with Disco.
The bass guitarist's real name was Axel Cordova, but on stage the fans knew him as Disco Cordova. At a glance, he looked about as dexterous as a brick... right up until he hit the dance floor. His side gigs as a young John Travolta impersonator were often the only thing that kept the band financially solvent during lean times. At twenty-eight, he was also the oldest member of the band aside from Ursula, which unfortunately meant he often took the odious task of adulting to heart. Always the serious one, always the hard ass.
Outfoxed: A Zodiac Shifters Paranormal Romance: Gemini Page 3