The Wolf Princess: The Wolf PrincessOne Eye Open (The Pack)

by Karen Whiddon

  Forty minutes later, Carson pulled up to the bus station. Three squad cars, lights flashing, blocked the entrance. Yellow police tape fenced in a square near the entrance. Like at the motel fire, a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered.

  Carson parked the Tahoe as close as he could. Leaving it running, he crossed to the edge of the crowd, keeping watch for anyone who looked remotely like a biker.

  “What’s going on?”

  A man turned to look at him, his graying, short beard and lined face perplexed. “Man was murdered,” he said. “Young guy, too. From the city. Heard he’d just bought a bus ticket to Brooklyn.”

  Jack. Carson took a deep breath. What about Brenna?

  “This man, was he alone?”

  “Far as I know.” The man peered at Carson. “Why?”

  “I knew him. Was he shot?”

  “Yes.” The man shuffled his feet. His sparkling white sneakers and neatly pressed jeans proclaimed him a tourist.

  Carson’s cell chirped. “Excuse me.” Making his way toward the nearest brick wall, he kept his back against it while he answered.

  “Talk to me.”

  “She’s not at the bus station.” It was the same voice—Jack’s killer.

  Carson scanned the crowd. “Is she alive?” He could hardly get the word past the knot in his throat.

  “For the time being.”

  “Are you here?” Carson clenched his fists.

  “Nah. Not me.” No hesitation in the guttural voice. “If I was, you’d be dead. Like your girlfriend will be soon. Did you know she was naked?” The caller chuckled. “Though the boss made us put her clothes back on.”

  Swallowing back his rage, Carson kept his voice level. “Where is she? Tell me how to find her.”

  “Why bother? She’s as good as dead.”

  With a snarl Carson shifted his grip on the phone. “Cut the bull. Let the girl go. I’ll offer myself instead. You name the time, the place.”

  The biker sneered. “A sacrifice?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “What if we want you both dead?”

  “Then I go down shooting. I’ll take some of you down with me.”

  “I’ll get back to you.” Again that click as the other man disconnected.

  Heart hammering, Carson punched the wall. If the man delivered his message, Carson might finally get what he wanted—a face-to-face confrontation with Alex or whoever had killed his family. If he could only work out a way to save Brenna at the same time.

  They would never cut a deal; Hades’ Claws didn’t play by rules. Never had.

  Then neither would he. Let them think he was waiting for them to set up a meeting. Meanwhile, he would ditch whoever was watching him and head out to the Hell Hole, figure out a way to get in and rescue Brenna. If he got really lucky, while he was there he would find the SOB who’d ordered her taken and get some answers.

  Alex. Brenna’s brother. What part did he play in all this? Did he know his own people had taken her? If he did, she ought to be safe. Surely her own brother wouldn’t let her come to any harm, or would he?

  Carson knew what he would do in Alex’s place. If they’d given him a choice eighteen months ago, he sure as hell would have traded his life for that of his wife and child.

  After, when all that he’d lived for had been savagely ripped away from him, he’d longed for death. Prayed for death. Hell, until recently, he still would have welcomed oblivion, once he’d gotten his hands around the murderer’s throat. But not anymore.

  So many deaths. Because of Carson, Jack had been killed. Now his enemies had Brenna.

  No more.

  The killing would stop.

  Giving the still-gawking crowd one final look, Carson walked away quietly and got in his Tahoe. The battered vehicle creaked and sputtered as he drove slowly away.

  He slammed on the brakes as a horrible thought occurred to him. What if Brenna was already dead? What if he was too late to stop them from killing her?

  His head began to ache. Since he’d lost his family, he’d lived for the day when he could finally look the bastard who’d killed them in the face. The renegade side of him wanted to pull the trigger himself. The lawman in him voted for arrest and justice.

  Even he wasn’t a hundred percent certain what he would do when the time came. He just wanted to know.

  But not at the risk of yet another life.

  He wiped his hand across his mouth, unsurprised to find it was shaking. After being focused on one goal for so long, his grip on reality had been disturbed. He no longer recognized facts or lies, reality or fantasy.

  But one thing he did know—Brenna Lupe was special. She’d crept into his heart and stayed there. He wouldn’t be too late to save her. Fate couldn’t be so cruel. Brenna was the one person he wholeheartedly believed in since he’d lost his entire family. She was good and innocent and blameless. He would stake his life on it. Now he might have to.

  Determined, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor and headed north, toward the Hell Hole.

  * * *

  Brenna woke in a dark room. She came awake fighting. Sucking in great gulps of air, she attempted to ward off an absent enemy. Her fists came up short, unable to move. Any attempt at movement brought sharp pain.

  A look at her wrists showed her why. She’d been handcuffed, one hand to each side of a headboard.

  Shaking her head, she blinked furiously, trying to clear her sight. The room appeared to be shrouded in fog. She swallowed, grimacing at the metallic taste. The objects in the darkened room receded, came closer, then danced away. Blurry. No sharp edges. Her heartbeat felt sluggish, her limbs heavy.

  Finally she understood why. She’d been drugged. One of the worst possible things that could happen to a shape-shifter. If she lost control of her body’s ability to change, she could mix the molecules. The end result could be death or worse, a horrific maddened creature out of mankind’s worst nightmares.

  Deliberately she calmed herself, using relaxation techniques to focus. She’d always prided herself on her control; she would call on that ability now to aid her.

  The dark room didn’t bother her; like others of her kind, smell was her dominant sense, enabling her to see in a way her eyes did not. She sniffed, groaning aloud. Whatever drug she’d been given had dulled even that important faculty.

  Still, though unable to probe deeply, she was able to detect the first layer of scents. The room smelled musty, as though it had been unused and closed up for a long time. The clogging scents of dust and decay made her sneeze.

  Next she attempted to listen, blocking out the sound of her own heartbeat and labored breathing, trying to hear voices, a radio, some conversation—anything to give her a clue as to where she might be.

  She heard only silence. Felt only confusion.

  She could not change to save herself. All she could hope was that Alex would learn of her capture. Once her brother knew Hades’ Claws had taken her, she would be safe.

  She hoped.

  With a groan, she swallowed. She hated that now even she doubted her own brother’s intentions, thanks to the way he’d behaved around Carson.

  Carson. A fresh wave of emotion swamped her. Would he look for her? She didn’t want to put him in danger because of her own foolishness. Bottom line: she would rather her life be at risk than his.

  She loved the man.

  Her eyes filled with tears. The drug? Or her own burgeoning sensitivity? She sighed. What a time to fall deeply, hopelessly in love with a human.

  At least, she thought, she could find some humor in this horrific mess. Things couldn’t get any worse. Or could they? She remembered a similar thought she’d shared with Carson the day before. The room had blown up then.

  Yes, things could certainly get worse. She had to find a way out. Closing her eyes, she ignored the pitch and roll of the floor, knowing it was the drug wreaking havoc with her senses. She must regain control. She needed to come up with a plan.
She had to figure a way out.

  * * *

  Carson didn’t stop to plan, or even to think. This time he couldn’t lose, couldn’t afford to fail. To rescue Brenna, he would have to act solely on gut instinct and impulse. He had to get her out—now. No time to waste. He’d delayed in getting to Jack, and now Jack was dead. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again—not with Brenna’s life at stake.

  Once he reached the Hell Hole, he drove past and parked off the road, near a copse of leafless trees, even though the dark night hid the car well enough.

  Leaving a protesting Phelan in the truck, he slipped on his black work jacket, thankful the bright yellow DEA logo was emblazoned only on the back, and began to walk toward the gate, taking care to stay near the trees in case he needed to take cover.

  No cars disturbed the late-night peace. The faint moonlight turned snowdrifts silver, bathing the trees in a ghostly luminescence. Yet danger lurked here, in the depth of the dark forest, in the compound where evil slept.

  There had to be a way in. Encircled by the odd fence, the perimeter of the Hell Hole was clearly marked. He studied the stonework, looking for a break. There, where the wall made a slight turn—one place looked less intimidating than the rest. At roughly four feet tall, some of the rock had crumbled, leaving a gap. This low point would be his best bet in scaling the glass-

  shard-protected fence.

  Ice in the breeze made him shiver. The end of his long journey waited inside these walls.

  Focus. Center. One thing at a time.

  First—get inside, find Brenna and get her out.

  Once she was safe, then he would hunt down his former partner and settle things once and for all.

  He placed his hand on the stone, feeling the cold seep into him. Focus.

  How to breach their security and remain undetected?

  When a survey of the surrounding trees failed to reveal any other security cameras besides the ones aimed directly at the gate, he let out breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. Despite what he’d told Brenna on their trip out here earlier, he doubted the woods were filled with motion sensors. It would make a lot more sense to outfit the fence itself with an alarm rather than try to monitor the entire forest. Half-assed security, but still more than enough for an ordinary home.

  This place was far from normal. He was pinning his hopes on the fact that Hades’ Claws wouldn’t believe anyone would be foolish enough to invade their headquarters. He hoped to use that arrogance against them now.

  Limited planning session finished, he backed up. He took the low point of the fence at a dead run. Vaulting over, he made it with only one shard of jagged glass stabbing his palm. The cut bled, but he ignored it and stood still, heartbeat a loud thumping in his ears.

  No alarms sounded; no spotlights began to sweep the woods. All remained quiet and still. He’d been right, then—they only monitored the gate. Apparently he hadn’t triggered the sensors. So far, so good.

  Slipping from tree to tree, just in case they posted guards, he finally saw the house through the tangled branches. Still a good fifty yards off, the low-slung ranch was an architectural holdover from the fifties. Unpainted and slightly weathered, the structure hid behind overgrown shrubbery. This had the singular result of making the place appear to blend with the forest, especially with all of the windows dark, as they were now. In the silver moonlight, the cedar siding appeared to glow. Overall, Carson found the effect eerie rather than truly menacing. But he, more than anyone, knew better than to trust simple appearances. Nothing was ever what it seemed. If he were to trip an alarm, he had no doubt that bikers would swarm over the yard, armed to the teeth.

  He crept closer. There had to be a way inside without alerting any of the occupants. His next step would be figuring out where they were keeping Brenna.

  Moving silently, he made his way around to the side of the house. Checking his watch, he stumbled. Caught himself. Nearly midnight. He took a deep breath, blew it out in a frosted plume. His nerves jangled. With an effort, he steadied them. Years of undercover work had taught him to trust his gut reactions—and his gut said something was off-kilter. There was something…wrong about the situation.

  He took inventory. Midnight. Dark woods. Even darker house. Too quiet. No dogs. He found it hard to believe a bunch of bikers went to bed so early. Unless they were expecting him, he couldn’t imagine them sitting around in the darkened house.

  Unless they were gone.

  He froze, unable to consider that possibility. If they were gone, they’d taken Brenna elsewhere. He would have a hell of a time trying to find her.

  As he stared at the house, a light blinked on, spilling bright yellow light into the backyard. No blinds or curtains shaded the window. Ducking behind a thick oak, Carson watched a large man enter the room, bending over as he fiddled with something out of Carson’s line of sight. Carson moved forward.

  A leaf crackled. He spun. Too late.

  Chapter 14

  A loud crash came from the hall. Startled into wakefulness, Brenna attempted to sit up, yelping in pain as the handcuffs yanked her back to the bed. Footsteps pounded. She heard a thump, a curse, another crash, sounds of a scuffle.

  Two men, maybe three, fighting. Were there guards outside her door? Straining to hear, she went very still. She heard a low voice give a guttural order but could not make out the words. The walls shook from another huge thump. She heard grunts and the horrible resonance of fists connecting. Finally there was an ominous-sounding thud, followed by silence. Then she heard only the steady drum of her own heartbeat in her ears.

  Her door squeaked open. The light clicked on again. Blinking against the sudden blinding brightness, she squinted at the man standing in the doorway. Shorty, the sour-smelling man who earlier had brought her food, grinned at her before disappearing briefly. When he returned, he backed into the room, dragging an unconscious body under the arms. Though his head was turned, she recognized the black DEA jacket and matching cap. Her heart stuttered, began to thud erratically. Carson. They had Carson. His hands had been cuffed in front of him.

  After depositing Carson in an unceremonious heap on the floor next to the bed, Shorty produced one more pair of steel handcuffs. They were twins to the ones he’d used to shackle Brenna to the bed. Since her feet were free, Shorty yanked Carson’s leg up and cuffed his ankle to hers. The cold steel bit into her flesh.

  “Too tight?” Leering at her, her captor shook his head, grinning.

  “Yes,” she said. “Too tight. And you’ve got him upside down.”

  “Tough,” Shorty sneered. “He can try and fix that when he wakes up. Hell, he ought to thank me. Now you two can be together. Die with each other, too, most likely. Nemo should give me a big bonus for this one.”

  He aimed his steel-toed boot and kicked Carson, catching him hard in the leg. Semiconscious, Carson gave a muffled groan.

  It took every ounce of willpower she had to keep herself from baring her teeth and lunging forward. Only fear of her inability to control the change kept Brenna motionless. Until she was certain the drugs had left her system, she dared not risk it.

  “He’s gonna wish he’d died the first time, along with his wife and kiddo.” With a laugh, Shorty leaned in to chuck her under the chin. Brenna growled low in her throat, baring her teeth at him. Immediately she felt the change begin in her. Horrified, she clamped down, closing her mouth.

  “Hey, girl, I like ’em feisty,” Shorty said, ruffling her hair as an added insult. Still chuckling, he waved a set of keys at her. “Too bad you can’t reach ’em.” Dropping them with a clank on the dresser, he left the room, slamming the door closed behind him.

  Brenna calmed herself. She took an analytical inventory of her system. The room no longer danced and swam through a blur. She could once more see angles and corners. Though her mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton, she no longer tasted metal. Lifting her head, she tried to scent the air. This time she could detect the faint od
ors of perspiration and blood.

  Carson. Tied as she was, she couldn’t help him. He lay on his back on the floor, the leg that had been shackled to hers pulling at her like a dead weight. Hounds help her if he tried to roll over.

  “Carson,” she said softly. No response. She wiggled, propping her back against the headboard, trying to ease the blood flow to her hands and now her leg.

  “Carson.” She tried again. She had to wake him before he moved and stretched her between him and the bed like some medieval torture rack. Then it would be a simple matter of making sure the drugs were gone. She would change, the cuffs would drop off, and they would be free.

  But what about Carson? If she changed, would he despise her? Vividly remembering how Jeff, the man who’d asked her to marry him, had reacted to the truth about her nature, she knew the last thing she wanted was for Carson to find out.

  Jeff’s reaction had killed him.

  For years, Brenna hadn’t been able to rid herself of the idea that he’d chosen death rather than a life with someone such as her. Ridiculous, she knew now, especially since his death had been a horrible accident, but it had happened because in his shock and horror he had run from her to his car. Reckless driving, fueled by confusion and shock, had caused him to have a head-on collision with a gasoline tanker truck. Both Jeff and the truck driver had been burned beyond recognition.

  No, she really didn’t want Carson to find out she was a shape-shifter. But if she didn’t change, they would both be trapped and die. Unless her brother suddenly appeared with the handcuff keys and released them, she had no choice.

  Carson attempted to move his leg, yanking hard at hers. She yelped.

  “Brenna?” He went still. Raising his head and licking the blood off his cracked lips, he pushed himself up on his elbows. Blanching, he took in the situation with a quick glance. “Damn.”

  “Hey,” she said softly. “How badly are you hurt?” His face had been bruised and his lip split open, but even battered, she still found him beautiful. She wanted to reach out and smooth the hair from his forehead, but she couldn’t.