Unbroken (Dark Moon Shifters #3)

by Bella Jacobs

  I know better than to think the danger has passed. That sniper was working for someone with money and connections. Whoever it is wants me out cold—or captured—enough to hire the very best, and when their boy doesn’t come back, I have no doubt they’ll be sending someone else to finish what he started.

  Which means I’ve got to maintain a low profile and hide in plain sight until I can get to the rest of the team and get us all the hell out of here.

  Seated at a row of stools along the window of a neighborhood bakery, minding my own business with the rest of the people looking for a sugar and caffeine pick-me-up, I fit in just fine.

  Outside, however, is a different story…

  The sidewalk and street in front of the city courthouse are filled with new millennium hippies, tree huggers wearing natural fibers and long swirly dresses carrying signs declaring their love for all creatures—human, animal, or anything in between. The pro- and anti-shifter protests have already spread to this relatively small city north of the United States border. But here, among the notoriously polite Canadians, the peace and love contingent outnumber the “round ’em up” group at least five to one.

  The anti-shifter faction—a group of about twenty people, mostly men in hunting gear and work boots, gathered near a fountain on the left side of the government building—have already been drowned out and are close to being absorbed by the ever-expanding pro-shifter demonstration.

  A girl in baggy linen pants, a tank top too thin for the cool summer morning, and uncombed brown curls hanging down to her waist walks by the bakery window with a sign reading “Love every skin you’re in! I support shifter rights!” and I duck my chin to avoid eye contact.

  She’s not just a girl; she’s one of us. I can tell by the way she walks, the flash of her eyes as she takes in every possible threat, while still giving off a “queen of the jungle” vibe. I’m guessing she’s a cat of some kind—the easy roll of her stride reminds me of Creedence—but I’m not going to get close enough to find out.

  My mantra—trust no one, ever, not even a little bit—has kept me alive too long to risk a change of course now, especially when half the shifters in the world would as soon slit my throat as lend me a helping hand. This hippie girl with her heart-speckled sign probably isn’t down with slaughtering every man-made shifter on earth, but I’m not taking any chances.

  I keep my head ducked, avoiding her sharply searching eyes until she flashes a peace sign to an old man hawking knock-off wallets on the corner and dashes across the street to join the rest of the do-gooders, nearly causing a wreck in the process. A man on a scooter turns to watch her boobs jiggle, clips the edge of the curb, and skids out into oncoming traffic, almost hitting an oncoming van before he regains control.

  No, I can’t trust that girl to be an ally, and those people are not my people. They’ve probably never even fired a gun, let alone killed someone—numerous someones—without regret or remorse.

  Sometimes, late at night, when I’m alone in my skin with all the terrible things I’ve done, I wish my life had taken a different course. I wish I had nothing to be ashamed of, no blood on my hands, no knowledge of what it feels like to stand over a man you’ve shot and watch the life go out of his eyes.

  But today, I’m grateful for every second of violence, every nightmare I’ve survived. They’ve all prepared me to protect the woman I love.

  Even if I have to disappear into a crowd of hippies to stay hidden long enough to find her.

  I’m mentally calculating what I’ll need to change about my appearance to join the shifter rights’ protestors—definitely have to lose the leather jacket; that sort don’t do animal skin, at least, outside their own—when a soft ding from my cell signals a hit on Dust’s phone.

  I glance down, zooming in on a city block not more than a half mile away, shaded orange. There’s a drug store, a community center, and a large bus station with an epic amount of underground parking.

  Instantly, something clicks—the bus station, that has to be it. Maybe Dust is stuck in a line to buy tickets for our trip to Banff and didn’t hear his phone ring…

  Any of the fifteen times I’ve called him.

  It’s a long shot, a fool’s hope, but as I chuck my coffee and head for the door, I’m crossing my fingers. If I’m going to get to Wren, I have to find Dust and Kite, first. They have Kin Gifts and magic at their beck and call. Surely they’ll have some way to get in touch with her, to warn her.

  As I head north, away from the protestors shouting chants on the opposite side of the street, I’m thinking of Kite’s empath skills and Dust’s ability to make things disappear, wondering which of them will have a better chance at finding our girl. I’m aware of my surroundings and ready to draw my gun, but I’m distracted.

  Still, there’s no excuse for how long it takes me to realize the sharp popping sounds coming from the front of the courthouse are gunshots. No excuse for the nearly ten seconds I waste before seeking cover behind a parked car, drawing my weapon, and taking aim at the crowd.

  It only takes another ten seconds—fifteen, tops—for me to locate the threat, a man in a black leather jacket not too different from the one I’m wearing, firing a semi-automatic rifle into the crowd.

  But not at random. He isn’t spraying bullets; he’s tracking his targets as they run for cover, picking off a man with long, grayish-brown hair, a woman holding her girlfriend’s hand, a teenage kid who’s already gone half panther with fear by the time the bullet hits him in the rear flank, knocking him sideways into the gutter.

  Shifters, I realize as I take aim at the shooter’s chest. The man is killing shifters, and he knows exactly where to fire, which means he must—

  I pull the trigger, the jerk of the gun in my hand banishing thought. But I don’t need to think. I already know everything I need to know about this man to understand I have to keep firing until he’s on the ground.

  My first shot nicks his shoulder, but my second connects with his chest, burrowing deep into his pectoral muscle. But the fucker doesn’t stop firing. He simply transfers his gun to his uninjured side and pulls the trigger again. In my peripheral vision, I see someone fall, but I don’t look away from my target. I hurry out from behind the car, keeping the executioner in sight as he turns toward the courthouse and the people surging up the steps, seeking cover inside.

  I shoot him in the back—there is no honor in a gunfight when a man is firing on innocent, unarmed people. I hit him once, twice, but it isn’t until the third bullet buries itself in the base of his spine that he finally stops shooting. He drops to his knees, gun clattering to the ground as his arms fall to his sides. I watch his fingers shimmer into the powerful forelegs of a wolf, but he’s too far gone to shift.

  By the time I race across the street, dodging the last of the fleeing protestors, he’s fully human again, lying on his side in a puddle of his own blood.

  My eyes meet his, and his lips twitch, but apparently he’s beyond words, too. But I’m still going to do my best to pull a few out of him.

  I bring my gun to his throat, where a faded tattoo peeks out from above the collar of his black button-down shirt, confirming he’s one of the Kin Born army. He’s marked with their symbol, an inked necklace of barbed wire with teeth for charms, each tooth a testament to a lab-made shifter this fuck has killed.

  “How many of you are there? And what’s your mission?” I push the muzzle tighter to his skin. “Tell me and I’ll put you out of your misery.”

  His lips twitch, curving into a pained smile. “Fucking lab…rat.”

  I return the smile, fighting the urge to pull the trigger. “Yeah, I’m a lab rat. I’m the lab rat who gets to decide whether you go out easy or you lie here and bleed until the human EMTs arrive.”

  Darkness flashes behind his eyes, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.

  “They’ll try to save you,” I continue, smile widening. “And then they’ll know what you are. And maybe, in a cute little city like this, there won’t
be anyone around who knows what to do with you. But maybe there will, and maybe you’ll end up in a government research facility and get to be a lab rat, too.”

  “I’ll die first,” he growls, his voice already weaker than it was before.

  I shrug, feigning indifference even as a panicked voice inside my head insists I’ve got to find out how many Kin Born are in the city and what their mission is before this shit-stain checks out. “Maybe, but maybe not. Maybe you live the rest of your life behind bars, getting poked and prodded by humans who don’t give two shits about your birthright. There are cameras all over this square. They’ll know you killed these people, slaughtered them while they were gathering to ask for peace. They won’t think twice about locking your ass up and doing their worst. Half of them already think shifters are monsters to begin with, and then you went and proved it by shooting unarmed women and children.”

  “Freaks,” he whispers, the word gurgling in his throat, making me think he must be bleeding internally. Which means I don’t have much time.

  In the distance, a siren wails, another reason to hurry. I wiggle the gun back and forth against his throat and arch a brow. “Last chance. Do I put you down or leave you for EMTs? I need a number. How many of you are there, and why are you here? Is this the only operation, or are their others?”

  It’s Wren’s voice I hear in my head as I ask the question. The old me wouldn’t have worried about warning any other lab rats who might be in danger. The old me would have gotten me and mine out and let the rest of the world fend for itself. He knew playing hero was a good way to get dead.

  But now, I need to do more. To stand between monsters like this and the innocent people he would slaughter. I have to do it for Wren and for myself, to prove I’m worthy of being loved by someone like her, the woman who has become the light in my darkness.

  “Too late,” the man whispers. “Fight for the freaks and die with the freaks. Everyone…”

  He trails off with a wheeze as his focus goes soft and distant. And then…he’s gone. I see the thread snap, sending his soul rushing off to wherever the shitty spirits go to be recycled into something better.

  Or something just as shitty. Who the fuck knows?

  Not me. I know jack shit, except that Dust, Kite, and Creedence could be dead. I could be Wren’s last chance and I’m flying blind. I can’t see visions or hear other shifter voices in my head. I can’t even shift without losing my damned mind.

  “You’ve got to run,” a voice says from behind me, high and tight over the howl of the sirens in the distance. “They’re coming, and they’ll kill you. Or arrest you. You’ve got to go. Now!”

  I turn to see the hippie girl with the long curly brown hair standing behind me, clutching one pale hand to a bleeding wound on her shoulder. “You saved my life,” she continues, tears filling her eyes. “I’d hate to see you rot in jail for the rest of yours.”

  “I don’t have anywhere to run,” I hear myself confessing as I stand, the decision to trust this girl made by the Wren voice in my head, the one that insists the only way any of us are making it in this fucked up world is together. “My friends could be dead, maybe my mate, too. I don’t know.” I shake my head, heart racing as I raise my voice to be heard over the sound of the rapidly approaching human authorities. “I can’t feel her anymore, but I don’t have a Kin Gift. I was made in a lab when I was a kid, so I—”

  “Come with me,” the girl says, backing away toward the promenade beside the courthouse, the one that leads past the massive structure to the next city block. “I’ll help you. But we’ve got to get out of here first. The new mayor hates all of us—lab and kin. Shifters have been disappearing like crazy since he took over. If we end up in the hospital, we’ll be gone by morning.”

  She turns, sprinting away, and I follow, trying not to look at the bodies on the ground as I dash after her.

  But it’s impossible not to see them.

  There are so many—big and small, old and young, all of them dead for thinking they could change the world. Each lost life hangs around my neck, weighing me down as I run. How many of them are gone because I didn’t react fast enough, shoot soon enough? How many have family who will spend the rest of their lives grieving the senseless deaths of the people they loved?

  The thought sends images rushing through my head—Dust and Kite and Creedence’s faces, all of the men I couldn’t fucking stand until they suddenly became family, brothers I would die to protect.

  If you’re still alive, I’ll find you, I promise them. And if you’re gone, I’ll avenge you.

  I know they can’t hear me, but the vow swells inside me, fueling my muscles as I push faster, faster, racing with superhuman speed across the next street ahead of a trio of speeding cop cars and disappearing into an alley by a Chinese restaurant.

  A beat later, I’m clanging up a fire escape and leaping out onto the sagging roof of a building so close to the courthouse that we’re in its shadow for nearly thirty seconds before Hippie Girl leaps onto the next roof.

  I follow, moving into the sun, determination sharpening to a deadly edge inside of me.

  Chapter 8

  Luke

  We run until we’re miles from the bus station, but it doesn’t matter. Dust’s phone might still be there, but Dust isn’t with it anymore. Each time I refresh the map the search ends up exactly the same. If Dust were with his cell, he should have moved around the station enough for the orange section of the map to recalibrate.

  But it doesn’t.

  “He could have dropped his phone by accident, right?” Clover Apple Blossom—my guide named herself when she was seven, her commune-dwelling parents believing all kids should pick their own names—passes over a burrito she fetched from the bodega downstairs while I stayed hidden in this garden shed atop of a quiet apartment building on the east side of town.

  I click off the screen and tuck the cell back into my pocket. “He could have. But with all the Kin Born activity today, and a good portion of it at the bus station, I doubt it.”

  The local news is calling the three shootings—one at the courthouse, another at the bus station, and the last at a clothing store mere blocks away from our hotel—terrorist attacks. A radical religious group based out of the Middle East is already claiming responsibility, but Clover Apple Blossom and I know better.

  The Kin Born are hitting this previously peaceful Canadian city like its ground zero for a new breed of lab-made shifters.

  “And you really think they’re here for you and your friends?” she asks, her hazel eyes wide over the top of her burrito. “Sorry to talk with my mouth full,” she says, working around a bite of beans and cheese, “I’m starving. And the sooner I eat the sooner I can shift and heal up.”

  I nod my go-ahead. “No worries. I never learned any manners.”

  Clover’s eyes narrow as she smiles. “I don’t believe that. You’re a hero, and heroes always have manners.”

  I clear my throat uncomfortably. I never set out to become anyone’s hero, especially a naïve, nineteen-year-old kid with a gunshot wound and some over-the-top romantic ideas of what being part of the Resistance is really like. I told her I was part of Dust and Kite’s crew, working to protect lab-made shifters and shut down the Kin Born. It seemed easier than explaining the real story.

  But now I wish I’d downplayed the heroics a little.

  “So what’s next?” She takes another massive bite, talking as she chews. “We search for your friends using your secret spy network?”

  “No secret spy network. And we don’t search for anything. You go home, and I’ll find them the old-fashioned way—head to the last place they might have been seen and start from there.”

  “Tracking. I can help with that,” she says, clearly having selective hearing when it comes to this team-up between us.

  I’m grateful for her help navigating the city and hiding from the cops, but I’m not going to put an injured kid in danger. When I head to the bus station, I’m
going alone.

  “I grew up in the middle of nowhere,” she continues, “hunting anything that moved. And I got my mark almost every time. That’s the good thing about having a cute little bunny Kin Form. All your enemies underestimate you. Until it’s too late.” She winks. “I was in charge of tracking down my sisters, too, when they got lost in the woods.” She rolls her eyes, her lightly sunburnt nose wrinkling. “I know you’re probably thinking that’s no big deal, but I’m seriously amazing at finding lost stuff. My parents used to think it was my Kin Gift until I turned twelve and started being able to smell when someone had an STD.”

  My brows lift.

  Kin Gifts come in all kinds, I guess.

  She grins. “You’re all clear, btw. In case you were wondering.”

  I clear my throat. “I’m sure you’re a fine tracker. But this isn’t up for debate. You finish your food and head home. I’ll wait until after dark, then slip out and find another place to spend the night.”

  Clover’s lips turn down hard. “But I don’t want to head home. Studying for a lit final feels like such a stupid waste of time right now. Our world is changing, and I want to be part of changing it for the better. Besides, my roommates are pigs. Like…literally.” She balls up her now-empty foil and tosses it to the floor with a sigh.

  I frown, watching her roll her wounded shoulder as I ask, “Seriously? I didn’t think pig shifters were a thing.”

  She huffs. “Well, they’re not. Not a real thing. Their weirdo farmer-scientist dad thought it would be cool to fuck around with his own kids’ DNA.”

  “Wow,” I say. Something about that stirs up a notion at the back of my brain.

  “Right?” she asks, warming to her subject. “But they’re not even mad about it. They actually enjoy going pig every afternoon when they get home from class. And they make fun of me because rabbits aren’t as smart as pigs, even though it’s a fact that the intelligence of a species in nature has nothing to do with the intelligence of a shifter’s Kin Form.” She shrugs her shoulder again, wincing as she peels back the jean jacket she stole from a clothesline earlier this afternoon.