“Not running from a bunch of shitbag Skins,” I tell him.
“No? Take a look around. We got two dozen dead guys here. Cop choppers coming in hard. And you know what? Fuck ‘em. The backstabbing motherfucker’s aren’t worth it.”
I snarl and growl and stretch my shoulders back, craving more blood.
“We’ll follow you,” Nash says. Me and Lonny and Sorry. We’ll follow you into those bullets. Fuck knows we’ve done it before. But you gotta lead, Prez. And leading doesn’t always mean doing what you want or what’s right for you. It means doing what’s right for your crew. People over pride.”
Nash looks across the yard. The Cartel boys have spotted us. The guys in the front two cars are sighting down their machine guns. “Think about what’s right for Mia,” Nash continues. “And Blue pacing in that fucking cage.”
I don’t know what to do, and that’s the worst part. An alpha Prez always needs to know what to do. Even if he’s stone-cold wrong.
It’s being decisive, not being right, that commands respect.
My wolf is shrieking kill. Kill. Kill. He’s a single-minded motherfucker, that one. He can afford to be. Life in wild is different than in these stinking Skin cities. It’s simple. Pure. Kill or be killed.
But Nash is right. We might walk away from a firefight with forty cartel boys. We might not. But we’re sure as shit not gunna be in any shape to track Mia or spring Blue.
Fuck sakes.
“We get whole, and then we paint the ground with these lying cocksuckers,” I say.
But even as I hear the words I think damn, our list of enemies is growing longer by the minute. The Stricken. The whacko cultists. The Ah Hong Syndicate and now the fucking Collazo Cartel.
Gunna be a busy week.
I peek over the shot-up truck. Three low-ranking MC are crouched behind their bikes, waiting my word and looking scared as all hell. The human arm of the Pureblood Predators MC is dead. A criminal organization doesn’t survive losing ninety-percent of its men in a single gunfight.
The Pureblood among us will be rolling solo from now on, and that means every dickhead with a grudge or a point to prove will be gunning to take us out. My head on a platter. That’s the word that’ll hit the streets after this, if it hasn’t already, and suddenly I’m afraid for Blue, alone in the Tac Penitentiary.
I’m a chickenshit coward.
Sometimes fighting is the easy part. Sometimes not fighting is the true strength, the true courage…but I tell you what: it sure doesn’t feel as good. I clench my fists so hard my claws dig into my palms, drawing blood, then lift my head to the sky and do something I’ve never done: I give a long, piercing, mournful wail.
Sonny and Lonny will know what that wail means.
It means every Pureblood for himself.
It means run.
CHAPTER TWENTY
LILY
THE GOLDEN EAGLE swoops high into swirling mist over Lake Washington, reverses course and dives toward the water so fast my eyes can barely follow. It looks like it’s going to plummet into the water, but at the last second it banks hard, reaches its talons down and plucks a glimmering silver-blue salmon from the water.
“Got one,” Connor says, clenching his fist. “Nice work, Star.”
The eagle banks hard and heads toward us, swoops low over the ground, drops the wriggling salmon in the middle of Connor’s lawn, circles around, spreads its wings wide and lands on the fish. Its sharp beak dives into the fish as it begins feeding.
“They’re not pack animals,” Connor says. “They don’t understand submission to an alpha or loyalty to a pack. The only reason Star tolerates me is because she’s learned that doing so is easier than being on her own.”
We’re standing below Connor’s house, near the lakeshore. He’s wearing grey wool slacks and a knee-length black overcoat that makes him look like a Nineteenth Century detective. His hair whips in the wind. It’s not raining, but the air carries a damp chill that pierces through my thin rain jacket.
The eagle tears into its prey, its talons holding the fish firm. I hear a soft tinkling as the silver bells secured on the bird’s legs jangle in time with its movement. It’s a magnificent animal, nearly four feet tall, and its talons are large enough to wrap around a human head.
“Where did you find her?”
Connor shrugs. “Brought her in from Kazakhstan. They’ve been used on the Eurasian steppe for centuries to hunt and chase wolves and foxes.”
“That’s incredible.”
Connor’s eyes are bright with enthusiasm. Its the look he gets when seized by a new passion; like the world is somehow new to him again. I wonder how long the falconry hobby will stick. Probably just long enough for the bird to become accustomed to its new handler.
We watch the bird feed, and when its finished Connor raises a gloved hand. Star’s head flips from side to side, as if she’s considering whether or not to tolerate this silly human. Then she leaps into the air and flies straight toward us.
I gotta say, it’s terrifying.
Her eyes are bright and sharp as she focuses on Connor I feel a rush of air against my face and hear her wings slice close beside me, then she’s perched on Connor’s arm, her sharp beak inches from his face.
Connor loops a small leather tether attached to her leg around his arm. “The jess,” he explains. “Made of kangaroo hide. Light and durable.”
The bird eyes Connor suspiciously. “You trust her?” I ask.
“Not trust. She’s a wild animal. She acts in her own best interest. Right now it’s in her interest not to pluck my eyes out.”
“Great,” I say, taking a step backward.
“You want to hold her?” Connor asks.
“I do not.”
Connor smiles. He has a gorgeous smile that sends a warm flush through me.
He unhooks the jess and lifts his arm, freeing the eagle. She launches into the air, her wings beating a quick whumping sound. We watch her circle into the morning sky for a moment, then Connor pulls off the falconer’s glove and hands it to me. “She’s heavy. Brace your left arm under your right when she lands.”
I’m about to protest, but instead I slip the glove on. Its made of thick, supple leather warmed by Connor’s hand. It’s too large and smell of fish. But I look into the sky, and see that magnificent animal flying overhead and suddenly I do want to know what it feels like to have her return to me. That odd, mutually-beneficial bond so often forged between humans and animals. I’ve never had a pet; never even liked pets. Too needy. Too much responsibility. But Star, swooping high overhead—she’s not needy. She’s wild and independent and beautiful, and then the bird is swooping toward me, glaring at me with those bright, piercing eyes.
“Steady now, Lil,” Connor whispers.
What am I doing? My hands are shaking. This is a terrible idea. I’m a city girl, for Christ’s sake. I waffle, make to tear the glove from my hand as the bird swoops in. She dips uncertainly, then lifts her talons at me. She’s going to tear me open.
Wolf raptor. I’m nothing but a soft bag of flesh to her.
I stumble backward, terrified, and at the last possible second I manage to lift my gloved arm. Star smacks into me, catches me off balance, her weight driving me down, and then we’re falling together, a sudden chaos of flapping wings and sharp talons and flailing limbs.
We hit the ground hard. Star’s wing feathers crash into my face, and for a moment she’s perched on top of me and I’m staring into her sharp, golden-green eyes and I swear she gives me a quick wink before hopping off and landing a few steps away. Star’s head bobs in what I can only imagine is irritation. Silly city girl, she’s thinking.
I push myself to me feet and try to dust myself off.
Shit. My ass is caked in wet mud.
Star screeches behind me, then lifts into the air.
Connor’s fist is pressed to his lips. He’s trying hard not to laugh.
“What the hell,” I say, more angry than I should
be. “That thing could’ve killed me.”
“But she didn’t,” Connor says.
“What’s the matter with you?” I say, getting even more pissed by how blithe and dismissive he’s being. “This new hobby of yours is bullshit, Connor. It’s one thing to mess around with a guitar until you get bored, but this is a living creature. Taken from her home. Trained to do your bidding. Its not right.”
Star circles high overhead, a black speck against broiling dark clouds. It looks like the rain’s coming. Shocker.
Connor puts the falconry glove back on. “What’s going on, Lil?” he says quietly.
“What?”
“With you. What’s going on? And don’t give me that look like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You roll in here at four in the morning, sweater torn and all bruised up and not a word of explanation.”
Connor’s face darkens, and for a moment I see the man he is: alone and a little lost despite his wealth and privilege, just like the rest of us, and damn it if I don’t feel like a real bitch.
So his eagle knocked me on my ass. Big fucking deal.
You want to talk about being blithe and callous and uncaring? Try this: I know I’ll never give Connor what he needs, and yet here I am, making a booty call when it suits me.
“You have your own life,” Connor continues. “I get that. But what are we doing, Lil? What is this…thing we have? Damn. I don’t even know what to call us! Is it working for you? Cuz it sure as shit isn’t working for me.”
I don’t know what to say. If I had some balls I’d say its over, for good this time, that we can never see each other again. And I’d actually try and make an effort to follow through with it. But I’m a chickenshit, and so I just drag my toe through the muddy lawn and avoid meeting his eyes.
“I found blood on your jeans from last night,” Connor says.
I look up. “So? I’m a cop. Blood’s part of the job.”
Connor’s face softens. “Look, I’m just worried about you is all. Not only the blood. The pills and the lack of sleep…I mean…don’t you trust me is all? Don’t we even have that after…c’mon, Lil.”
“C’mon Lil what?” I say, feeling my cheeks flush in indignation that he mentioned the Adderol. “I don’t need you fretting over me. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much.” I try and bite my tongue but the words are too fast, propelled by too much hurt, and so I say, “You want some advice, since you’re so good at dishing it out? Well here it is: how about Mr. Connor Lerrick climbs down off his fucking high horse to live among the little people for a while? Y’know…where not everyone’s fucking perfect. What do you know about taking care of yourself, anyway? Nothing. Nothing at all.” I gesture to the glass and concrete mansion behind us. “Born at third base and acting like you hit a triple. You have no idea what it’s like out there, in the real world, for people like me just trying to make a go of it. Just trying to survive.”
“No,” Connor whispers, kneading the falconry glove with his other hand and not meeting my eyes. “I guess I don’t. And I guess you’re going to make me feel shitty about something I can’t change, over and over, because it’s you who can’t handle being with me, Lily. Its you with the hang ups about whether you deserve this or not. About whether you deserve this life I’m offering you. Because I know you don’t believe you deserve happiness. You’re a cop now. I’m happy for you. But inside you’re still a street kid, pissed off at everything, feeding your hurt and anger, using it to keep the world out, afraid of being close to someone who actually cares about you. Afraid of opening up and being vulnerable.”
My chest tightens.
I will not cry. Not now. Not again.
“But you do deserve happiness, Lily. It might not be with me. But you do deserve it. I hope someday you realize that.”
Connor reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a small black velvet box.
My heart skips.
He opens the box, lifts a glittering ring, and says, “This is waiting for you. If you want it. I’m waiting for you. But I can’t say how much longer I’ll wait.”
Fuck him. The bastard. Doing this now.
But my anger’s fading, and in its place is something worse: resignation. I’m not meant to be happy. That’s the truth. That’s what my life has taught me.
“Don’t wait for me,” I say, my voice breaking and my tears mixing with the first few drops of rain. “I don’t love you. I’ve never loved you.”
I whirl and run up the steps alongside the house, heading for the front drive and the road and a cab back to my life. My shitty, walled-in, broken down life. When I’m behind Connor’s house, safely out of sight, I turn and look at the sky. Dark bellied clouds. Cold rain beating into my skin. And Star circling above, tethered by an invisible chain of shared need.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ANIK
I’VE HEARD THAT if you’re abducted you can’t let yourself be taken to the abductor’s intended destination. He’s chosen that spot for a damned good reason: he’s confident he can hold you there for as long as he chooses. Thinks once he has you locked up there he can do what he wants with you. Maybe it’s a barn way out in the middle of nowhere. Maybe a penthouse with soundproofed walls. A cage in a basement. Where ever it is, once you’re there your odds of leaving alive are next to nil.
You have to escape when you’re in transit from where he took you to where he wants you to be.
That’s where I am now. In transit.
Flying low over a frozen landscape in an RCMP helicopter. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but I know we’ve been flying south for quite a while: the bare, iced-in tundra has given way to an endless expanse of stunted black spruce growing from marshes and bogs. The boreal forest, the largest unspoiled forest left on earth. No roads. No cities. No development. It stretches from the arctic tundra nearly to Canada’s southern cities.
Being lost alone in those endless woods is a nightmare for most. But for me the forest means one thing: freedom.
I’m sitting sandwiched between two of those self-proclaimed Stricken cop creatures, my hands cuffed behind my back and numb from lack of blood flow. They’ve added ankle cuffs connected by a short length of chain.
The bullet wounds have stopped bleeding, but I’m trembling with exhaustion. I need to heal enough to summon my spirit animal, and fast, because I know I don’t have much time.
“Water,” I say to the cop sitting next to me.
He turns, gives me a long stare, reaches between his legs, retrieves a water bottle, takes a long sip, drops the bottle on the floor and smiles.
Fucking pricks.
Two thoughts repeat in my mind: escape. Find Pimniq. Escape. Find Pimniq.
Nothing else matters.
I lay my head back and try to rest. I doze into a fitful sleep, the sound of the helicopter blades thumping through my head as I dream of a land where the sun never rises.
In my dream it’s midwinter in the north. My people are hungry. Only they’re not my people. Not the ones I know from Pangnirtung, anyway. They’re strangers who I feel like I’ve known forever. We’re wandering across the ice, through wind so strong it’s nearly impossible to walk. Out in front there’s a hard-looking man with quick blue eyes wearing a black leather jacket with some kind of motorcycle gang patch sewn on the back.
There’s another guy to my left, his dark skin covered in brutal scars and odd, flower-like tattoos. He’s limping slightly. He’s got a shaved head and feels…wrong somehow. The wind picks up icy shards of snow and drives them stinging into my face. The tattooed man. Something about him makes my animal uneasy. I don’t trust him. I keep looking over my shoulder at him, expecting him to betray us.
There are others as well, walking alongside us, but they’re a little further off and the driving snow obscures their features. To my left there’s a tiny girl in a white dress, so small she reminds me of my sister. In her white dress against the blowing snow she’s almost invisible. L
ike a ghost. The fourth figure is up ahead. Another woman, this one built stronger. I can only see the back of her, but I understand she’s the one I’m following.
This is her pack.
I sniff into the wind. Fear prickles my spine. We’re being hunted.
“Faster, Anik,” the woman up ahead says to me. “Faster. We’re almost through. Soon we’ll see the sun.”
The woman turns to me as she speaks. I understand I will follow her to death. The wind lifts long enough for me to see her face, and when I do I realize why I’m following her. The woman looks nothing like me, but she’s my sister. My packmate.
Then there’s a scream, and the woman’s face grows troubled and grim. Something has emerged from the storm and taken one of our pack. Someone fell behind and whatever is chasing us has him. I lower my head to shield my eyes from the blinding snow and hurry forward, not wanting to be next, knowing my survival depends on not losing sight of the woman ahead, and she’s calling me, saying the name that is not my name over and over: Tornarsuk. Tornarsuk. Torn—
I wake screaming, the cops leaning into me, pinning me into the helicopter seat.
We’re descending.
Below us the spruce forest has been cleared for at least a mile. A series of fences, some chain, others cinder block, form a square around a small industrial building clad in beige aluminum sheeting. There’s a helicopter landing pad and a guard tower at each corner of the fence and not much else. It would look like a prison if the building were larger.
This is it. I don’t know what’s down there. Only that if I let them take me inside I’ll never get out.
The helicopter swoops low over the fence. A guard standing in one of the towers, dressed in an RCMP uniform, turns and salutes as we fly past.
The helicopter hovers over the landing pad. Not long now.
As the helicopter touches down I call him. I’m more rested than I was in Pangnirtung, and I feel my animal pacing just beneath my skin. The cop beside me sees my face bulge and screams a warning, opens the door and hops out, dragging me with him. I land in a heap and scramble to my feet, the helicopter’s blades whirring close overhead.
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