Untamed (Dark Moon Shifters #2)

by Bella Jacobs

  “Tell me,” I encourage, as Subject 7 braces a hand on the concrete block wall, her jaw clenching with the effort.

  “Mercy,” he murmurs. “She has mercy. Even on Subject Eleven, after the attack on the bear settlement. She wasn’t going to kill him.”

  “And how do we use mercy to our advantage? Do we send in predators the girl will be on her guard against now that she knows of their existence?” I loop my fingers around the bars. “Or do we send in a creature so deliciously broken Wren won’t hesitate to offer it aid?”

  Subject 7 lurches to her feet, her blue eyes blazing.

  “You don’t think she’ll suspect something?” Monroe asks. “During the debrief, Subject Seven said the girl had no idea there was a tracking device on the vehicle. As far as Wren knows, her friend Carrie Ann is an ally who sent us down the wrong path. How do we explain her sudden appearance at the camp?”

  “Leave that to me.” I watch Subject 7, Carrie Ann, one of my most precocious creations, shuffle toward me, exerting Herculean amounts of will to keep from succumbing to the sedatives coursing through her bloodstream. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve still, Monroe.”

  “Of course, sir,” Monroe says. “Though, I can’t help but wonder…”

  “What do you wonder, my friend?” I murmur.

  “If there’s even a chance Wren might be able to…remove him…”

  Him. We don’t say his name—he’s the villain of a children’s book, too terrible to be spoken of aloud—but we all know it. Atlas. The reigning Fata Morgana. The man with a thousand forms, an army of supernatural defenders, and a fortress no satellite can locate, no matter how hard we’ve tried.

  Atlas, the ally and taskmaster we’ve embraced because that’s what you do with enemies who are too powerful to destroy—you make them friends.

  “We’ll never have the weapons or tech to take him out,” Monroe whispers tightly as Carrie Ann weaves closer. “But that’s what Wren Frame was born to do. Shouldn’t we let her try? If she fails, nothing changes. But if she succeeds…”

  If she succeeds, we’d finally have a shot at wiping out every shifter on the planet—including the all-powerful Atlas. Wren kills Atlas, then we kill her, a much easier target than a monster who’s had millennia to fine-tune his defenses.

  But the fact remains that the monster has had millennia to prepare.

  And the monster has a knack for being everywhere, all at once.

  And the monster isn’t stupid enough to leave any vital corner of his kingdom unguarded.

  Monroe should have known better than to say such dangerous things. He should have known better than to think them.

  For a moment, I’m filled with a sharp, sudden sadness.

  There are few people in my world who have proven their loyalty and commitment to the cause the way he has.

  I’m going to miss Monroe.

  “No.” I lean into the space between the bars, my gaze tangled with Carrie Ann’s. “We are loyal to Atlas. We keep our promises to him, he keeps his promises to us, and we all live happily ever after.”

  “Sir?” Monroe’s voice cracks in the middle of the word.

  We all know the self-termination trigger. It’s the final protocol, the last chance to go out on your own terms, to reach for whatever lies on the other side of this life with dignity before it’s too late. Not a traditional “happily ever after,” for damned sure, but better than the alternative.

  So much better…

  “No, sir.” Monroe lifts shaking hands in supplication. “Please, I was just talking. I’m loyal. You know that.” He swallows hard “Please, Martin. Lacey’s having the baby in a month. She needs me. My daughter needs me. Please, God, I’m begging you…”

  But God has no skin in this game, and no one, god or mortal, can grant Monroe’s prayer. I know that, but when his breath catches and his hands fly to his mask, I can’t help but flinch.

  Behind his fumbling fingers, something small and black scuttles from his dark hair, down his sweat-beaded forehead. It’s followed by another creature, no bigger than the tip of a ball-point pen, and then another.

  And another.

  Soon the insects—ticks maybe, or one of those flesh-eating African fleas my college roommate studied our sophomore year—are pooled in the corners of his eyes, churning, burrowing as Monroe begins to scream. Within moments there’s a faint pop as the insects break through, swarming into his sockets. Blood splatters the plastic visor from the inside, obscuring my view as Monroe falls to his knees, shrieking in agony as he claws at the hood of the suit that’s become his death shroud.

  It is mercifully quick—less than a minute between penetration and annihilation—but not fast enough. Carrie Ann reaches the bars while I’m distracted by the corpse twitching at my feet. I’m reminded of her presence by a sharp pressure on the knuckle of my middle finger, followed quickly by pain as her teeth break through the thick fabric of my suit, finding skin and bone.

  Howling through gritted teeth, I snatch a handful of her filthy blond hair, shoving her head back before slamming it forward into the bars—once, twice, three times. On the fourth, the skin on her forehead bursts, and her jaw loosens. I rip my hand from her filthy mouth before introducing her forehead to the cold iron again and again, only stopping when her eyes roll back and her knees buckle.

  I release her with a grunt, breathing heavily as she crumples to the floor against the bars.

  Once again, the cellblock is eerily still, no sound but the snoring of one of the subjects at the opposite end of the hall and the rustle of tiny legs as the insects abandon Dr. Monroe’s corpse. I watch them stream from between the zipper that secures the hood to the hazmat suit, leaving bloody footprints behind them.

  There are hundreds of them, I realize, enough to make a statement without saying a word.

  The creatures separate into three groups—two forming large black dots on the polished concrete and the third, a curved line below them.

  A smiley face.

  Evidently, Atlas is still pleased with my contribution to our partnership.

  I nod in response, and the smile dissolves as the insects lift into the air on previously invisible wings, climbing until they vanish into the ductwork in the ceiling.

  Clutching my wounded hand to my chest, I hit the call button on the side of my helmet. “We need a cleaner in the Apex cell block, and tell Dr. Casey I’m headed to the infirmary for stitches and an antibiotic drip.”

  “Right away, Dr. Highborn,” the voice on the other end of the com replies, knowing better than to ask questions.

  There is a time for curiosity—in the lab, in the classroom, in the operating theater when discovering fascinating anomalies in the shifter reproductive system—and there is a time for following protocol.

  Protocol is what keeps the people working here safe from the monster too big and bad to ever bring to heel.

  Because Rilke was wrong. Not everything terrible is truly something helpless in need of aid. Some monsters are pure evil, through and through, and the only truth is that they will get their teeth into you—sooner or later.

  It’s just a matter of time.

  Chapter 2

  Wren

  I have no idea what I’m doing.

  Absolutely no clue.

  As I sit in this cramped hotel room in the wilds outside Spokane, watching two of the four men in my life prowl the flowered carpet like caged animals, while the third seethes in a tattered wingback chair in the corner, and the fourth broods on the bed beside me with a still sadness that breaks my heart, I am struck by how utterly unqualified I am. I am not fit to be the glue that holds five people together in a relationship—any relationship, let alone a supernatural union that is the only shot at survival for ourselves, the planet, and everyone we love.

  I’ve never had a steady boyfriend.

  Aside from my adopted parents, I’ve never even observed a functional union up close. My girlfriends in high school were all wallflowers like me, or in
intense, secretive, highly sexual relationships with other band nerds. In college, I was too busy volunteering at the shelter and trying not to die to have time to be part of a couple, and the few illicit liaisons I witnessed at work always ended badly.

  My sister had one serious boyfriend when she was in high school, but Chad vanished from the picture pretty quickly once Scarlett was sent to rehab. He did show up to her memorial service with a bouquet of lilies, but we all knew that was more about assuaging guilt than expressing affection. He was the one who’d given Scarlett the drugs that landed her in rehab in the first place, and his offering only proved he hadn’t known my sister at all.

  Scarlett hated lilies. They made her sneeze.

  They make her sneeze, I correct myself.

  My sister is still alive. For now. And as long as there is breath in my body, I intend to keep her that way. Which means we have to decide our next move. Fast. Before our enemies catch up with us again.

  I force my lips to part, and more uncomfortable words to come out. “I know this is hard, and that we’re all tired and scared, but we have to decide on a place to settle. We can’t keep running in circles.”

  “Agreed.” Creedence’s voice is a soft rumble, but I know he’s still angry.

  Enraged is a better word. His blood is running so hot I’m sure it’s kicking up the temperature in the already warm room a couple degrees.

  “A decision has to be made,” he continues. “Preferably one that ends with all of us staying alive. Which would be easier if certain members of our happy family would quit lying every time they open their fucking mouths.”

  “Nastiness isn’t productive,” Kite says with a sigh.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Pooh-bie.” Creedence presses a hand to his chest as he leans forward in his chair, his amber eyes blazing. “I apologize for not being as Zen as you and your old lady, but I figure we have enough enemies out there.” He jabs a thumb at the window, where the trees droop in the summer rain, their heavy leaves looking as dejected as I feel. “Half of creation wants to take us out. If we can’t trust and depend on each other, we might as well put a gun to our heads now and save the bad guys the trouble.”

  “Please don’t talk that way,” I beg, my stomach churning sickly as flashes from the attack on the reservation rush through my head. It’s been a week since we fled east, but the memories of carnage are still way too fresh.

  Every time I close my eyes, I see blood, tears streaming down terrified faces, and a hole exploding in the center of a man’s forehead as he begs me for help.

  A hole Luke put there with his gun.

  A hole Luke doesn’t regret for a second.

  A hole that inspired Luke’s everlasting contempt when I made it clear I’m serious about showing our enemies mercy, even when mercy feels impossible.

  I peek at him beneath my lashes, but Luke’s gaze remains fixed on the carpet as he paces from the sink to the silent television and back again, sticking to his side of the space by unspoken agreement with Dust, who paces a slower, shorter path between the bed and the door.

  When I shift my attention Dust’s way, his gray eyes are filled with equal parts frustration and a helplessness that worries me.

  Dust is our captain. If he’s lost, what does that mean for the rest of us?

  It means no one is steering the ship. They’re fighting over the wheel, and you’d better step in and take charge before you all end up smashed against the rocks.

  But how do I take charge?

  How do I lead, when I know for a fact that at least one of my potential mates doesn’t want to follow me—or to be my mate at all? Luke’s only in this for the fake ID he’s been promised when we cross the border. And then there’s Creedence, who thinks I’m a naïve child, Dust, who’s having an existential crisis, and Kite, my first mate, first love, first everything, who is quietly slipping into depression in the wake of the deaths of his family and friends.

  I tighten my grip on Kite’s hand, wishing I could spare him this pain, that I could take it into myself somehow. But I can’t. All I can do is hold his hand and be there for him when he wakes up crying out in the night and promise that I’ll never give up on him or on our mission.

  If I give up, if we fail, then all those deaths, all that suffering and loss, will have been for nothing.

  “Dust has apologized,” I say in my most soothing voice, “and explained why he made the decision he made. We may not agree with it, but I understand why he felt it was the right call at the time. He was trying to give us some stability, to keep us from being any more frightened than we were already.”

  “With all due respect, Slim,” Creedence says, “I’m a grown man, not a child who needs to be sheltered from the big bad world. I’m also more than this mark on my ass. I have experience slipping by the authorities. I was helping my sister make fake IDs before I could ride a bike without training wheels.”

  “And those are skills we can put to use now,” Dust says, speaking up for the first time in several minutes. “We’re going to need—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you need!” Creedence surges to his feet so fast his shaggy golden hair flies into his face, errant strands sticking to the beard he’s grown while we’ve been living on the road. “I don’t work for you, Captain.” The last word is spoken in a sneer so cutting it makes me flinch. “You aren’t calling the shots around here anymore.”

  “Then who is?” Dust shouts, clearly done apologizing. “You? You think you’ve got what it takes to run a mission I’ve trained two years to lead? Just because you hail from a family of thieves and con artists?”

  “Thieves and con artists who got away with millions,” Creedence pops back. “Most of it without getting anyone caught or killed. We both know you can’t say the same. How many casualties have you chalked up so far? Fifteen? Twenty?”

  Dust stiffens, his jaw clenching tight.

  Creedence jerks his head toward Luke. “And if it hadn’t been for Mister Paranoid Puppy over there, we’d be dead now, too. Just like those innocent people, those kids we might as well have slaughtered with our bare hands for all the—”

  “Don’t,” Kite snaps, lifting his gaze from our tangled fingers. “Don’t use the deaths of my people to make your point. We get it. We all understand what’s at stake.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Luke offers in a silky voice so relaxed that, if it weren’t for his endless pacing, I would think he didn’t care about any of this. Any of us. “Someone put a tracking device on the Hummer. If we hadn’t found it, the people hunting Wren would have found us. And the person who put them on our trail is someone we think we can trust.” He pauses, glancing Cree’s way. “I’m sure, if I weren’t the one who suggested we do a sweep, I’d be a suspect.”

  “Maybe you still are,” Creedence says with a dangerous smile. “Maybe you’re playing a long game, pretending to be our buddy now so we’ll relax our guard and give you the chance to really stick it to us later.”

  Luke smiles back. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be breathing right now, brother.”

  “I’m not your brother. And I’m done with this conversation.” Creedence snatches the keys from the table near his chair. “I need some fucking air.”

  “Please, stay.” I swing my feet to the floor, standing between the two rumpled beds where we all slept poorly last night. “Please Cree,” I plead as he starts for the door. “We need to be on the same page, and that won’t happen if you leave. We need you here. I need you here.”

  He glances over his shoulder, his wild gaze softening. But he doesn’t move back into the room. “I’ll bring back something to eat,” he says, his shoulders hunching closer to his ears. “All of you assholes are getting too skinny.”

  He slips out the door, leaving silence filled only by the hum of the tiny refrigerator hidden beneath the television.

  A part of me wants to go after him, but not to insist he come back and finish the discussion we’ve started.

  I wan
t to slam into the battered Mustang convertible we bought three towns back and go for a ride. I want to put the top down and go fast, until the wind rushing past my ears drowns out all the ugliness and fear and the terrifying possibilities I can’t quit dreaming about every time I fall asleep.

  But heroes, even ill-suited ones like me, don’t get to run away.

  It’s not part of the job description.

  I prop my hands on my hips and dig back in. “It could have been Carrie Ann. Or my parents.” My voice catches on the last word, but I clear my throat and push on, “They all got close enough to the Hummer to slip the tracker under the bumper.”

  “Or it could have happened on the reservation,” Kite says. “My sister knew we were planning to take the Hummer when we left. She could have told someone who told someone. I don’t like to think about any of those people turning traitor, but it’s possible.”

  “Or your sister could be the rat,” Luke says, earning a glare from Kite so intense I shift forward, positioning myself between the two men—just in case.

  “It’s not Leda,” Kite snaps. “She’s family.”

  “And Carrie Ann is like a sister to Wren,” Luke says gently—for him—but I can tell Kite isn’t taking it that way. “And her adopted parents raised her since she was four years old. It fucking sucks when people we love betray us, but it happens. Even with our ride-or-die crew.”

  “I don’t like to think it could be someone any of us knows,” I say, jumping in before Kite can explode. He’s usually a peacemaker—so is Creedence, for that matter—but we’re all on edge. “But I’m even less inclined to believe it’s anyone in this room.” I lift a hand toward the door. “Or anyone who recently left the room. You’re all good at shielding, but you also all drop your guard every now and then, and I haven’t felt a whiff of that kind of malice from any of you.”

  “Me, either,” Kite seconds.

  I gained access to and amplified Kite’s empathic gifts when we mate-bonded last week. Now we’re both capable of reading an average, unguarded person’s intentions in about six seconds flat.