Backing away, she hissed at him, because to make everything doubly humiliating, he’d posed as Jerry and she’d never once caught on. The moment she’d agreed to go with him, fake Jerry whipped up a spell, putting her right back into cat form.
Then he’d stuffed her stupid, easily duped body inside that damn plastic box, cast a thwarting spell to prevent her from shifting back, and driven her directly to his apartment in Manhattan.
More stupid.
He flicked the wire surrounding her catio and admonished her, his pudgy face frowning, and then he clucked his tongue in disappointment. “Now, don’t be like that, Martine. I simply did what I had to do. I used a cloaking spell or two to disguise myself as your friend—tweaked a text message here and there sent between your boyfriend and his sister. No harm, no foul. No one was hurt in the making of your second abduction. Well,” he said on a lascivious wink. “Not really, anyway. So don’t be such a sourpuss.”
He wiggled his finger at her again. Still on her back, she struck out in her fury, back paw swiping at the chubby tip and successfully drawing blood.
But Escobar wasn’t put off by her anger. Instead, he smiled, licking the crimson drop before it fell to his brightly colored flowered shirt. “Sad face, Martine. I’m so disappointed. But it looks like that bunch of rough-looking werewolves took really good care of you. You had a nice break, right? I admit, you were darn tough to find at first. I should have lengthened my reach on your tracking spell. It was weak and thready for a while, but I was finally able to pinpoint your location. So I sent in a couple of people to recapture you. People who owed me, but as always, they failed me. It’s so hard to find good help. But they did locate you, then it was just a matter of logistics. And now look at the two of us. Reunited just like Peaches and Herb.”
If only it felt so good. She hissed at him again, wanting to scratch his very eyes out, wipe the self-entitled smile from his cherubic face.
Escobar only sighed, patting his soft middle beneath his festive Hawaiian shirt. “We only have a little time together before I’m done with you—and you know what’s going to happen when I’m done. You don’t want to spend your last moments on this plane angry, do you? Let’s spend it peacefully, eh?”
Her ears twitched in terror. Yep, she knew what was going to happen.
He’d told her all about it. He was going to kill her.
Fear swept down her spine as she rolled to her stomach and rose on her legs. God, she was a moron. She’d fallen for his cloaking spell like lemmings fall from a cliff. She’d never once thought to do some of the things Derrick had, in their many conversations, urged her to do when she’d gotten that strange vibe from fake Jerry.
Use your nose. Paranormals live and die by the scent of others, Martine. Had she taken the time to smell fake Jerry, she would have known he was an imposter.
More panic set in when she thought about sweet, insightful, kind Jerry. Was he hurt? Oh God. Rage made her legs shake. If Escobar had hurt Jerry, she’d find a way to kill him herself, even if it took until the end of time and a million years learning spells to do it.
Stretching back on her haunches, she watched Escobar, his round form moving from room to room in the condo as he gathered herbs and oils. He was in a rush to go somewhere, that much was clear.
Think, Martine. There has to be a way to get out of here. You have to get out of this damn cage in order to save Derrick. Do something.
Do what? She was stuck in shift. Even if she had a spell, she couldn’t speak to recite it anyway.
I dunno, but you’d damn well better figure it out!
As he approached the cage again, he cocked his dark head, his squinty gray eyes twinkling. “So one last mission into the realm for me, and then I’m afraid we have to call it a day. Breaking up is hard to do, huh, kitten?”
No. He was going to send her back into the realm? No. No. No.
She braced herself for the woozy feeling Escobar’s spell always created just before he sent her on a magic haul, her brain racing to find an answer.
But he paused for a moment, staring into the catio, a question in his eyes. “You know, I’ve been wondering something. Who do you suppose had the audacity to steal you from me?”
Her ears perked, her head cocked—and that was when she spotted it.
The key to getting out of this predicament.
* * *
Derrick shoved open the door to the bar, seeing Morris at a table with Jagger Dubrov first. “Have either of you seen Martine?”
Morris shook his head. “Nope. But I’d like to. That’s some good-lookin’ cat you got there. She owes me a rematch.” He waggled a finger at the pool table and cackled.
Jagger frowned and shot Morris a look of confusion. “Morris, she was just in here about two hours ago. Old age catching up with you, pal?”
“The hell I saw her. Two hours ago I was embalming some poor stud who fell off a roof and landed in a pool head first.”
Jagger held up his wide hand. “No, Morris. You were here. Right over there at the bar with me on my lunch break. You told her Derrick had gone into the city. She looked pale as a damn ghost over it, too.”
“The hell I was, boy! Call up my granddaughter Joy over at the funeral parlor and ask her where I was two damn hours ago,” Morris scoffed, rising from his seat and reaching for his sunglasses. He thumped Derrick on the back. “I ain’t seen your girl since our last pool game. Damn tired of you kids makin’ me feel like I’ve done lost my mind. I might be five hundred, but I still got my wits. So what’s wrong with my pussycat? She okay?”
Derrick didn’t want to worry or offend him. “Everything’s fine, Morris. No worries.”
Morris harrumphed and nodded. “Say hello to your girl when you see her.” He stalked off toward the door, wrapping a scarf around his head as he went.
Jagger rose from his chair, too, his enormous girth shadowing Derrick’s. “I’m telling you, Derrick, Martine was here about two hours ago while I was on my lunch break. I left just after she did and Morris was still here. He told her you went to the city. New York, to be exact. I don’t know what that old coot’s talking about, but I was right here when he said it.”
Derrick clenched his jaw. What the hell? If he knew anything, he knew Morris was sharp as a damn tack. But he didn’t have time to ask questions. Jagger was a solid member of the community, if a bit reclusive. If he said Morris told Martine he was in the city, he believed him.
“Did she say where she was going when she left?”
Jagger shook his dark head. “Nope. But she looked worried about you. I asked if there was anything I could do, but she wouldn’t hear it.”
Derrick’s nod was curt when he reached up and clapped Jagger’s shoulder. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
Jagger looked down at him, his face, carved in granite, genuinely filled with concern. “You need help finding her?”
“I have a bad feeling she’s not here in Cedar Glen.” If Morris, or whoever, had told her he’d gone into the city, she probably thought he’d gone to see her mother behind her back.
He’d almost done just that, but he was going to try one more stab at talking her into finding all the help they could before she’d disappeared today.
“If you need me, you know where I am. Always happy to help,” Jagger said before taking his leave, his large feet clapping out his exit.
Max came in just as Jagger was leaving, his eyes meeting Derrick’s across the room. He answered the question Derrick held on the tip of his tongue by simply shaking his head.
Which meant Martine wasn’t by the pond or in the surrounding woods.
Fuck. If he wasn’t worried before, he was worried now. If she’d somehow gone into the city on her own, thinking he was there, what would her prick of a father do to her?
“Anything?” Max asked, his face grave.
“I think she went into the city because she thought I went there to talk to her mother.” He explained what had transpired with Morris and Jagg
er.
Max ran a hand over his jaw. “So now what?”
“Now I take the information we found on her mother and I go find Martine.” Fuck, he needed to find her. Needed to see her, needed to know she was okay.
“We go find her. I’m not letting you walk into this shitpile alone.”
“Can’t let you do that, Max.” Not a chance in hell was he going to let Max risk his future with JC.
Max’s eyes went dark and domineering. “You can and you will. You don’t have a choice. Now let’s not argue about this. We’re losing time while we bullshit. You wanna run or drive?”
Derrick was already halfway out the bar door. “Running’s probably faster. No cops to worry about giving us tickets.”
Max nodded, right beside him. “I’ll text JC and ask her to pack us a backpack so we have clothes.”
Derrick nodded as he braced himself for the harsh wind that had begun to blow. He pointed up at the darkening sky. “We’d better hurry it up. Looks like this could get nasty.”
Max clamped a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Hold up. You okay?”
No. No, he wasn’t okay. He was worried sick about Martine and her safety. About the possibility of her meeting up with this Escobar or her father or both, defenseless, and it made him want to punch his fist through a wall. “I’m damn worried about her,” he admitted openly.
“Then let’s go get your mate,” Max urged, taking off toward his house, where Derrick knew JC would have packed some clothes for them to put on when they got to Queens.
As he ran to catch up with Max, he was reminded once more that he hadn’t made up with Martine. They hadn’t talked to each other for two days, and if something happened to her, he’d never be able to tell her that while he wasn’t backing down on his position about her mother, he was sorry they’d argued.
Because he missed talking to her. He missed wrapping his arm around her and tucking her close after they made love, falling asleep with the scent of her in his nose.
He wanted to tell her that the hole in his gut was getting deeper by the second just thinking he wouldn’t have the chance to tell her that.
* * *
Distract him. How the hell could she distract Escobar while still in shift?
This was the thing weighing heavily on her mind as she listened to him wonder out loud who’d taken her from him to begin with.
As she’d listened to him hatch a plan to wreak havoc on their lives for even considering stealing from the great and powerful Escobar.
While his rant had picked up steam, she’d found a hole in her catio. One she couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen. One she was not only sure had been made by whomever had stolen her from Escobar to begin with, but that she knew she could fit through if she was willing to end up with some chicken wire embedded in her skin.
She’d gained weight since staying with Derrick and his delicious meals showed along her rib cage. No way was she getting out of this unscathed.
“So who do you suppose would dare steal you from me, Martine? If only I had more time, I’d press you for details, because you do know this thief needs to be punished—severely. No one steals from me and gets away with it.”
“Meowwwww!” she howled, rubbing her body up against the rusty wire, her eyes wild and fierce when she looked into Escobar’s.
He tilted his head full of dark hair and flicked the wire. “Hush! What’s the matter with you?”
She howled louder, pulling air into her wee kitty lungs and letting ’er rip. “Meooooowwww!” she wailed, pacing back and forth as though she’d gone mad.
What worried her most was the possibility he’d put a silencing spell on her, snatching her voice so she wouldn’t keep howling and end up discovered.
He’d done it plenty after he’d first captured her. She’d railed against her captivity, and with no ability to speak, she’d done it loudly—vigorously—and it had driven him insane. He’d silenced her from that point on, so when he was gone, no one would ever know she was in his clutches.
But the walls were thin here. She knew that from experience. Very thin. Maybe, if the guy next door heard her before Escobar stuffed a sock in her mouth, he’d wonder what all the fuss was about and come knocking.
For now, it was the only plan she had.
“Martine!” he warned, his thick lips turning to a fine line of anger. “I don’t have a moment to spare. I can’t think when you howl like that!”
Good to know. So she meowed harder. “Meeeeeeeooooowwwww!”
Escobar’s face turned red with anger, his eyes bulging, his thick hands swatting at the cage.
Somewhere she’d read that if you were confronted with someone who was just a sock shy of a pair, be the other sock.
In other words, always be the craziest bitch in the land.
That in mind, Martine began to thrash her body against the chicken wire, throwing herself into it time after time, running up and down the length of the pole leading to her kitty condo, flopping on the padded perch like a fish out of water until Escobar screamed his frustration.
“Shut up!” he bellowed, his head swiveling around toward the door. “You’ll draw unwanted attention!”
“Meeeooooowwwwwww!”
Ding-dong. As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
Escobar’s face turned crimson, his rounded cheeks puffing up, his eyes full of hot anger.
Now she howled for all she was worth, long, pathetic, screeching howls in a desperate cry for help—which resulted in loud banging on the door.
“Hey, man—shut that fucking thing up! Christ, can a guy get some sleep?” the voice just beyond the door yelled.
Martine let out another war cry, paying close attention to the vibrato in her voice, making it tremble on its way out.
Escobar whipped around, pointed his finger at her and hissed, “Silence thee, mine ears be free!”
Fuck.
Instantly, Martine felt the spell, her throat tightening, her vocal chords effectively squashed.
But the guy from next door clearly wasn’t going to let the disruption in his afternoon go without a good tongue-lashing. He pounded on the door again. “Open the goddamn door before I report you to the landlord! There’s a no-pet policy in this building, you asshole! What the hell are you doing in there?”
She stilled as Escobar turned to stomp a path to the door, popping it open to find an angry, equally red-faced man behind it.
His eyes assessed the warlock with disdain. “What the hell is going on? Jesus Christ, man, it sounds like you’re skinning the damn thing alive! I’m reporting you, jackass. Not just to the landlord but to animal control…”
As the man ranted, and with Escobar caught off guard, she made her move, pushing her way through the hole, making herself as small as she possibly could.
The sharp wire tore at her side, and in that moment, she was grateful Escobar had silenced her so she didn’t cry out in pain.
Hot blood dripped down her fur, coating her paw as she wiggled the rest of the way out and fell to the floor while the two men argued, their hands flying in each other’s faces.
Slipping along the wall, she made her way around the catio and snuck behind the couch Escobar had in the middle of the living room, giving her a straight shot to the open door.
Martine flexed her front paws, stretching her neck and ignoring the sharp tug of her wound.
It was now or never.
Falling back on her haunches, she sprang forward, hurling herself across the tile floor and skidding smack into Escobar’s sandaled foot.
The next-door neighbor’s eyes went wide when Escobar reached a hand down to grab at her, shouting angry words.
But this time she was ready. Claws out, teeth barred, she began to scratch at him, clawing and digging until he screamed, “You stupid, stupid bitch!” Shaking her off, he flung her against the wall in the hallway, knocking the wind out of her.
The next-door neighbor rushed to her side, kneeling down and yelling over his should
er, “What the hell kind of jackhole are you, throwing a defenseless cat? I’m calling animal control and the police, you freak!” He drove a hand under her body in order to scoop her up, but she twisted out of his grip, grazing his hand with her claws.
She did her best to give him a brief look of apology before she took off. No way was she going to get caught up with Animal Control.
Flying down the stairs, she ran as though the devil himself were behind her, trying to remember the way they’d come in. Confusion warred with the ache of her throbbing head and the gash in her side.
When she came to a landing, she stopped short. Left? Had it been left or right on the way up?
Shit!
The heavy thud of footsteps coming from upstairs forced her to make a choice. She tore down the stairs to the left, almost losing her footing on the slick surface.
“Martine!” Escobar roared from above, his rage-filled tone making her stomach do a somersault.
Panic seized her, threatening to immobilize her.
Run, run as fast and as far as you can. You have to get to Derrick!
But where? How the hell do I get out of here?
While she pondered the way out, the floor beneath her began to quake.
And that was when the first fireball landed right at her feet, singeing her front paws.
Okay. Escobar had broken out the magic—right here in front of a human in broad daylight.
Game on.
Chapter Fifteen
“What the hell was that?” Max yelled over another series of loud rumbles and a flash of yellow light inside the apartment building.
Dianna Brooks grabbed Max’s arm, her eyes intense. “Escobar! It’s Escobar! We have to hurry!” she shouted, fear for her daughter so acutely written on her face, Derrick squeezed her hand to offer some measure of comfort.
He and Max had gone to Dianna’s, walked right up to the door and rang the doorbell, ready to take Martine’s prick of a father out if he interfered—magic be damned.
And they got damn lucky. Gavin Brooks was off at some tavern, drinking himself into his usual sundown stupor. Though, Dianna hadn’t quite put it that way.
What's New, Pussycat? (Wolf Mates Book 2) Page 16