Storm's Fury

by Nya Rayne

  Shea-Shea snorted and finished, “I’d be damned if I fuck to give my green away, and then get the shit beat out of me because he had a bad day. That’s just some bullshit, you know?”

  They stood side by side, silent, as the chattering amongst the other bystanders continued before Shea-Shea added, “I haven’t seen you in the last couple of days. Where you been?” Shea-Shea elbowed her playfully. “Did you find you a Richard Gere?”

  “A what?”

  “You know, like in Pretty Woman.” The younger woman settled back against the wall beside her and directed her attention to the motel as the first fire truck pulled up. “Most of the girls won’t admit it, but I think we’re all out here looking for our knight.” She dug into her oversized yellow purse, pulled out something small and scratched at the side of her head with it. “Anyway, where the hell have you been, girl? Spill the beans already.”

  Stormy narrowed her eyes at the girl dressed like a woman. Shea-Shea might have looked like she was in her mid- to late twenties, but in truth she was somewhere between sixteen and eighteen. When asked about her age, she’d say something like, “Thanks to my daddy and his fucking buddies, my pussy’s well over the legal age limit. That’s all that matters, right?”

  “I had no idea I was being watched.” Stormy glanced at Shea-Shea out the corner of her eye, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Shea-Shea frowned and scanned the crowd. “I wouldn’t have noticed if you didn’t have Mr. Town Car coming around here looking for you like three times a night.”

  “Mr. Town Car? Who the hell are you talking about?”

  “Big black shiny Town Car, white guy in the back and Mr. Clean driving?” Stormy shook her head and frowned as Shea-Shea continued, adjusting her feathered blonde wig. “Some of the other girls tried to get a date with him, but he brushed them off. He said something about you owing him directions.”

  Stormy gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “What did you say?” She pushed off the wall and reached for Shea-Shea. “What did he say?” The last guy she’d rolled—Sanderson, that was his name—hadn’t he said something about directions? Or had she brought it up?

  Shea-Shea jerked out of her grasp. “Rings a bell, does it?”

  Before Stormy could respond, a baritone voice stopped her dead. “How about those damn directions?” Something cold and hard pressed against her back directly over her lower spine. She tried to turn around, her heart pounding against her rib cage.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A strong hand came up around her waist, yanking her back against a hard chest and a potbelly. “You make one fucking sound and I’ll drop your ass where you stand.”

  Her mouth went as dry as an overcooked piece of chicken. Oh holy hell.

  Stormy could only stare at Shea-Shea as all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. It was all a set-up. Shea-Shea had to have seen her and Fury arrive, and called Paul Sanderson. When she said he’d been on the strip and some of the girls had tried to get dates with him, Shea-Shea was probably the only one who had tried. Which was when they came up with this plan of theirs.

  “Move,” the guy commanded, shoving the gun into the small of her back.

  “Shit,” Stormy growled as she took a slow step forward, her eyes trained on Shea-Shea’s smirking face.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t very well stay ahead of Pedro by only laying on my back, now can I?” Shea-Shea rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the man behind Stormy. “I did my part. Where’s the rest of my fucking money?”

  The guy behind Stormy stopped, his arms slipping from around her waist. He fumbled in his pocket. The gun slipped from her spine for half a second, and Stormy used it to her advantage. She stomped down on his foot, spun on her heel, grabbed the cash he was handing to Shea-Shea, and threw it in the air, screaming, “Free for all!”

  The people around her transformed into a pack of rabid wolves. They attacked, trying to get to the fluttering bills, giving Stormy the out she needed to escape her would-be captor. She bolted through the crowd, dodging wild fists and clawing nails. She leapt over a woman who was on her knees, scraping up as much of the money as possible and stuffing it into her bra. Behind her, she could hear Shea-Shea shouting, “Leave my fucking money alone! Hey you, that’s mine! Put that down, bitch!”

  Stormy continued on her track, rounding the corner and down the sidewalk like Satan’s hounds were on her heels. She chanced a backward glance and damn near died.

  The stocky guy—Paul Sanderson’s driver—was pounding the cement behind her like a track star at the height of his career. His size didn’t give the impression that he would be a strong runner, but damned if he wasn’t chewing up the distance between them.

  Stormy turned her attention back to the sidewalk in front of her and ran into a large fist.

  “Son of a bitch!” Her face exploded in pain, an ache so fierce she swore half of her head had been taken off. Stormy fell to the ground, her hands landing on something cylindrical and hard. She looked up in time to see a blond-haired bulky man who had to be the king of steroids, lumbering toward her. She gripped her makeshift weapon and scrambled back to her feet, relieved to find it was a three-foot steel pipe.

  “Stay away from me!” She swung the pipe back and forth, cutting through nothing but air. “Get back! Stay away from me!”

  The metallic taste of blood was in her mouth, her head was swimming, her ears were ringing, and her stomach was churning in on itself. But she forced down the vomit threatening to force its way up and out her mouth.

  Fury, where are you?

  The driver ran up behind her, catching her off guard and grabbed the pipe. He yanked it from her as his large fist came down in an arc, connecting with a loud thud to the side of her head. “Shut the fuck up!”

  Stormy hit the ground. She tried to fight, but he dragged her into the alley as if she were a mere child throwing a tantrum. The pain reverberating through her head, back, and shoulders was excruciating.

  Brutus, Sodona, Crul, Fury, somebody, help me, she cried silently.

  She was released in a puddle of something wet and sticky. “Please,” she begged, her hands out in front of her. “Don’t do this.”

  “Weren’t you told to shut the fuck up?” someone, possibly the stocky driver, bit out.

  Stormy saw his shoe coming and rolled onto her side, but not before the blow connected with her stomach, forcing vomit up and out of her mouth with such force her entire body convulsed. Another kick landed on her back and then someone stamped down on her right thigh. She bit down on her tongue to stifle her scream. Her mind wasn’t willing to focus on anything but the pain. She wanted to fight, to ward them off, but her body wouldn’t listen.

  “D-Don’t do this.”

  Someone grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She found herself staring up at Paul Sanderson. He didn’t look nearly as innocent or naïve as he had the night she met and robbed him. He looked downright vicious and nothing like the visiting medical professional he said he was. His cruddy cheeks were flushed, his beady eyes narrowed, lips pulled back from nicotine-stained teeth, and his nostrils flared.

  “Don’t.” Her hand found his chest, gripped his shirt, and tugged. “Y-You have a wife, a daughter. Please don’t do this.” She beseeched whatever ounce of humanity he had left in him. If there was any.

  There wasn’t.

  “Shut your fucking mouth!” Paul jerked her head back while dragging her up to him. Stormy pushed against his chest, clawed at his face and neck, but he was too strong, and filled with far too much hate. His thin lips crashed down on hers in a violent kiss that made her stomach roil and sent her mind reeling, seeking sanctuary outside of her body.

  Fury! Dear God, Fury where are you? She couldn’t feel him or even sense him. It was like being in a plastic bubble or dark coffin. She was alone, her mind a barren wasteland. Fury, I need you.

  Paul pawed at her breast with one hand while his other hand slipped beneath the hem
of her dress, his clammy fingers grabbing at her panties.

  “You bastard! No! No! I won’t let you!” Stormy kicked out with as much strength as she could, sat up halfway, and rammed her forehead into the bridge of his nose.

  He screamed and tried to fall back away from her as his goons clamored to his side, but Stormy was faster. She leaned forward again, opened her mouth, and bit down on his bulbous nose. He might well severely hurt her, maybe kill her, but she’d be damned if he was going to walk away from this altercation unscathed.

  Paul shouted something, palmed her face, and slammed her head into the ground.

  Everything went silent and black for…she didn’t know for how long.

  Light slowly came back to Stormy, followed by the sound of traffic—a siren, and cars honking. In the distance a pack of dogs were barking furiously.

  She turned her attention to herself. Paul was straddling her, his heavy frame applying such pressure she found it hard to breath. She tried to move, to kick out again, but the driver was holding her legs open, while the steroid freak was pinning her hands above her head.

  “I’ll give you your money back. Just don’t do this,” she tried again as the first tears came to her eyes. This wasn’t happening, not now when she finally had a chance at a normal life. Of all the men she had robbed over the past few months, why did this have to come back to haunt her now? Why when she was so close to having everything she’d ever wanted?

  “Oh, I’m going to get my money and those damn directions, don’t you worry about that.” His breath was hot and sour, his tongue slimy as he licked up the side of her neck to her face.

  Stormy turned her head away and closed her eyes as a sob escaped her. She tugged at her arms again, arched up off the ground and tried to scream, but Paul moved, placing his hand over her mouth, stifling her cry for help.

  “Hold her down,” he said, like the vice grip his baboons had on her wasn’t firm enough.

  Stormy closed her eyes tighter as Paul bit and yanked on one of her nipples through the thin material of the dress. She twisted and bucked beneath him as she screamed in agony into his large hand covering her mouth.

  The pain stopped. The pressure of his weight on her disappeared and then there was a yelp of surprise, the crunching of something that could have been bones, and the sickening sound of ripping.

  “Fury,” she whispered, trying to pull herself up, but the asshole pinning her arms hadn’t released her.

  “Now gentlemen”—a soft, but husky male voice said from somewhere behind her—“is that any way to treat a lady?”

  The trail ended in a disgusting alley three blocks from the motel. The carnage was sickening. One body was practically skinned, every bone crushed. If that weren’t revolting enough, it was also ripped open from neck to the abdomen, entrails spilling out, covering the ground. The other had a fist-sized hole through his head, and the third one’s skull had been crushed.

  Underneath the stench of blood, piss, feces, and other disgusting scents of the alley, Fury could smell her. Her fear, her tears, her blood.

  Where are you? His fist clenched and released as he looked for anything that would tell him what had occurred here. And more importantly, a sign of where the hell Stormy had gone.

  Stretching mental fingers outward, he found the remnants of a barrier that encased the alley and the surrounding buildings. This had to be the reason why he hadn’t been able to reach her when he’d called to her.

  He spotted something white against the stark griminess of the alley. It stuck out from beneath the fattest of the eviscerated victims.

  Fury stepped over to the body, kicked it over with the toe of his boot, and knelt to pull the material out of the man’s tight grasp. He held it up to his face, sniffed it, and balled it up tight in his fist, a growl of rage building in the back of his throat.

  Had these humans attacked her?

  That would explain why this vermin had material from the slip of her dress clasped in his hand. It would also explain why he could smell his chosen on him, much stronger than either of the other two.

  His eyes narrowed as he stared down at the man’s swollen and bloodied face. The urge to stomp on it until it was a simmering pool of blood and bone was overwhelming.

  Fury turned away abruptly and took a step deeper into the alley. That would explain everything, with the exception of why someone or something had intervened. And done exactly what he would have.

  But the question of where Stormy was and why he couldn’t reach her remained a mystery.

  Had she put up another one of her blocks? He thought, trying to work through this little conundrum. No. If she had, I would feel it. Now, when I reach for her, it’s like reaching into a deserted wasteland. She’s just not there.

  He turned and scanned the bodies again. The overkill: the mutilation, the manner in which they were left on display.

  Terroar, you son of a bastard!

  Every muscle in his body tightened, until he could feel the veins at his temples pulsing. He clenched his fists, needing something desperately to punch as his claws lengthened and dug into the skin of his hands.

  Fury reached out along their old path, You’re fucking dead. On Anubis’s head, you’re dead, Terroar.

  A blood-curdling scream ensued from the opening of the alley. Fury glanced at the human woman responsible, took three steps and sprang into the sky, his form shifting into mist as he did so.

  Normally, he wouldn’t allow any human to see him do such a thing, but right now he couldn’t have cared less. The human authorities would say she was in shock or, at worst, crazy. Besides, to her he would appear to be a human man, and no matter how hard they tried, humans hadn’t been able to master the art of vanishing yet.

  A moment passed before he was greeted with a mocking chuckle. Furiosus? It’s so good to feel your rage again.

  Fury growled into the link, You touch one fucking hair on her head, and I’ll gut Luzivius and send him back to you with his balls in his hands.

  So crass, old friend. Terroar, the twisted prick, laughed. Can’t we talk like we used to?

  If there was one thing Fury admired about Terroar, it was his innate ability to seem unperturbed, regardless of the situation. But right now, he wanted to rip Terroar’s tongue from his head for that same reason.

  Where is she?

  When I found her she was filthy, so I was forced to bathe her. She’s a temperamental little thing, isn’t she? However did you get so lucky?

  Terroar, Fury warned. If you hurt her, I swear on Anubis…

  I’m many things, old friend, but I’m not that. Did you like what I did to that vermin? I did it for you, you know. Let’s call it an olive branch, shall we?

  If he was in human form, Fury’s head would’ve snapped back as if he’d just been slapped. A peace offering? He’s lost his fucking mind, he thought.

  Before Fury could respond, Terroar continued, his tone the same as before, You wouldn’t believe the things they were trying to do to her when I arrived. He chuckled again. Then again, you probably would. Like a bipolar bitch on heroin, his mood changed, becoming hard and scathing. Humans are despicable beings. The things they do to one another. The way they treat their women. I wish I would’ve thought about ripping his dick off and shoving it down his throat before I killed him.

  And still you betrayed me for them. Fury wanted to keep him talking. While Terroar was shielding his aura, it would be impossible to find him if he didn’t want to be found, but with an open mental channel, he might as well be drawing Fury a map.

  It was merely a means to an end, friend, nothing more. Fury could feel Terroar’s nonchalant shrug.

  I’m not your friend, but I will be your executioner.

  If I’m not yours first, Terroar quipped, his tone sardonic. This woman of yours, Ambrosia, has the balls of a Lion Hound—she didn’t flinch when I relieved that bastard of his heart. And you would think she would’ve said thank you, since I saved her before those bastards could ta
int her. But all she does is scowl at me with those damn emeralds of hers. I think if she could, she would kill me, Furiosus. Terroar sighed thoughtfully. I like her…for you. She suits you well.

  Don’t like her too much, Terroar. I swear to Anubis, if you do one fucking thing to her, I’ll—

  Terroar’s voice was a lightning strike. You’ll do what? If I wanted her dead, she would be by now. Surely, you know better than anyone else.

  Terroar was not a being who valued a woman’s life over a man’s. To him they were all equally expendable. The bottom line was Terroar had him by the balls. If he wanted Fury dead, all he needed to do was slit Stormy’s throat.

  What do you want, Terroar? Luzivius?

  If I wanted him, I would have him. Do you doubt that?

  Fury snarled, What do you want?

  I want to talk like we used to, old friend. I want to hunt together again. You remember that, don’t you? All those millennia, side by side, forever in each other’s minds. That’s what I want, Furiosus. I want my old friend. Terroar was quiet for a pregnant moment before he asked, laughter filling his voice, Do you know where I can find him?

  I don’t have time for your games.

  Terroar’s voice turned as cold as hot ice. You’ll make time to save your precious little Ambrosia, won’t you?

  Fury roared in anger, but didn’t respond. Terroar knew as well as Fury did, that Fury was coming. Talking, however, was going to be the last thing they did.

  Furiosus, don’t take too long getting here, I might get bored. And you know firsthand the kind of trouble a man of my creativity can get into when he gets tired of someone.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Stormy staggered back with a loud gasp, air rushing into her lungs the moment she was released. She looked around, pulling the lapels of the white hotel robe closed, and turned and took in her surroundings; the expansive field sprawled before her, the swaying trees lining it, and the softness of the grass beneath her bare feet. And then there was him, Terroar—tall, dangerous, exotically handsome.