There's nothing I can do about the light still being on; there's no light switch anywhere to be seen. I'll just have to hope that they don't notice or at least don't suspect it's because someone's already in here. It could just be an electrical fault. I cling to that idiotic hope and wait.
The sound of someone walking down the steps makes me force my body to relax. When you're tense and in an uncomfortable position, you're more likely to make a sound and give yourself away. By relaxing, pretending that everything is fine, you trick your body into behaving, into not acting on the fear.
One day, I should really sneak into the Pack's lair and thank my teachers, especially Miss Joan. Then I'll kill her as revenge for all the things she did to me. She was a great teacher, but she liked to use role play in her lessons. Most of the time, I was playing the role of the mark. I got beaten up by her most days. Stabbed, occasionally. And worse. Shifters heal quickly, even when human, and they made full use of that.
I push the memories from my mind. This case is making me reminiscence far too much. I'll be glad when it's over, and I can go back to my normal day job. Night job. Whatever.
A key is pushed into the lock. Time slows down as I focus all my senses on my surroundings. I need to be quiet, quick and qabalistic. The three Qs. I've always found the third one to be a bit forced, but I like it. Qabalistic: having a secret or hidden meaning. My whole life has been like that. Full of secrets, full of mysterious pasts and identities. In this case though, I'm just interested in the 'hidden' part of it. Namely, me staying hidden from whoever is about to enter the room.
The door opens. I continue to breathe normally. Quietly, but in a regular rhythm. If I hold my breath, I'll have to breathe faster and louder later on.
Heavy footsteps make me suspect that it's a man before I can even see him. When I do, I realise that I've underestimated his size. He's massive. His shaved head glistens in the cold light, his broad back looks like it belongs to an ox and his thighs... well, let's not get started on those. Tree trunks. That's what they are. He's two, maybe three heads taller than me and at least three times as wide. He could eat me for lunch and still demand dessert.
I smell the air. No, he's not a shifter. Thank the Great Cat in the Sky. He's just an extraordinarily large human. He walks to the corpse on the very left of the room, the one I hadn't looked at yet. Damn. Of course, he had to choose that one. It's not fair. Although, he could have taken Winston. That would have been even worse. Winston Kindler's body is my only good lead so far. Everything else is shrouded in secrets and questions, but him being here, not in the police's morgue, that's a big, fat hint. And this big, fat man is connected to it all.
I watch as he takes a knife from his pocket and begins to saw off one of the corpse's fingers. Okay, he's definitely not the one who cut off the woman's hand and who killed Winston Kindler. He's making a mess of it. I could have done better as a toddler. At the end, he actually pulls at the finger to try and rip the last bit of skin apart, but it doesn't quite work, and he flays the wrist instead. Idiot.
When he finally manages to sever the finger from the poor man's hand, he wraps it in a piece of clingfilm and drops it in his pocket, along with the bloody knife. Ever heard of cleaning your tools after use? What a buffoon.
He turns back to the door. The moment of truth. Luckily, he never glances in my direction but keeps his eyes on the floor, as if he needs to concentrate where he's putting his massive feet. Well, if my shoes were the size of boats, I'd probably do the same. No running on rooftops for him.
I wait until the door closes behind him, then run over to the man's corpse. I scan his face, memorising his features, even though his skin has already started to blacken in places. He must have been here the longest, judging from the stadium of decay. He smells the worst, too. I wait another minute, then open the door.
Storm is waiting for me outside, her blue eyes glinting in the darkness.
"Let's follow him," I say, and she gives me a mental nod. I can almost see her smiling. Yes, cats love to hunt. I think Storm and I are going to have a good time together.
Half an hour later and quite a distance from the market square, both of us are sitting on a roof, watching the house on the other side of the road. We're in one of the wealthier parts of town. Not quite where the really posh people live, but close enough. Not a place I'd ever want to live. It must be a pain to keep the front gardens this neat and tidy.
The big man disappeared into the house a few minutes ago, but surprisingly, the house is still dark. Not a single light has been turned on. He did have a key though, so unless he stole it, he must be or know the owner.
Storm yawns and rubs her eyes with her furry paws. I try not to let her see how cute I find that. She'd probably kill me. Cats are everything but cute. Majestic, elegant, godly, but never, ever cute.
"You can go home," I whisper to her. "I can do this on my own."
She looks at me as if I'm crazy. She probably thinks of me as a helpless human. Well, she hasn't seen my panther yet. I shifted before I met her near the market, although I'm sure the other cats have told her about me. Besides, she can smell the cat in me. We recognise each other. So much so, that I sometimes have a crowd of male cats following me when I have my period. It's both embarrassing and adorable. Not that I'd ever be attracted to a male cat. My libido only works when I'm human, luckily. I don't even want to think about all the ethical implications of what a relationship with a cat would have. There are several things I'm proud to have on my police record. Bestiality wouldn't be one of them.
"Okay, stay," I mutter, keeping my eyes on the house. Not that anything is happening. It's as if the man simply went in there, lay down and fell asleep. Maybe that's precisely what he did, but it's a bit strange to cut off a finger before going to bed. No, my gut is telling me that something else is going on in that house. A secret meeting, maybe.
It's time to investigate.
"Warn me if someone's leaving the house," I tell Storm and she blinks at me lazily. I'm once again amazed at how blue her eyes are. It's like the sky met the sea in one enormous embrace while being sprinkled in glitter and starlight.
I slide down the roof, letting myself drop the last two metres to the ground. I land in a crouch, ready to jump into action should someone have heard me, but the street remains quiet. I assume that most houses here have intruder alarms, so people will be sleeping soundly, not knowing that most criminals see alarms as a welcome challenge.
I run over to the house until I'm back in the shadows, hunched beneath one of the large windows. The grass beneath me is wet even though it hasn't rained in days. They must be watering their garden. Such a waste of resources just to have greener grass than their neighbours.
I press my ear against the wall. There are definitely several people in there, some of them talking, but the walls are too thick for me to make out anything specific. I need to get closer. Annoyingly, with the shine of the street lamps, it's brighter out here than it is inside the house. Someone could be standing by the window, watching me, without me seeing them. No, looking through the windows isn't a good option. I need to get inside.
There's a balcony on the other side of the house that should be the perfect way to get inside. Or at least closer to the roof. I have a thing for rooftops.
Suddenly, there's a loud bang inside, like someone's been slammed against a wall. Shouts follow, indistinct but loud enough for me to separate them into four different voices. All men. Miss Joan's words pop into my head. Crime is a men's world, girls. Better show them what you've got.
Maybe I'll skip the roof after all. More loud noises inside, intermixed with groans and shouts, like they're having a brawl. Are they killing each other? Saves me from having to do the job, if they're indeed Winston Kindler's killers. Not that I'd mind...
I feel Storm's warning the same moment I instinctively swing around to a sound behind me. My knives are in my hands just in time to counter the first strike coming from the shadows. Someone is attacking
me, but it's too dark to see his features. A man, judging from the way he moves and his size, but I know that looks can be deceiving. Another slash of silver and while I manage to block it, I don't see the tiny dart until it's too late.
It embeds itself in my throat, and a moment later, darkness overwhelms me. The last thing I feel is Storm's fear.
Chapter Eleven
The moment I return to consciousness, I swing my body into action, jumping up to face whoever is attacking me. Except that there's nobody to fight. I'm alone in a bright white room that's completely empty. Not even a window, just a metal door, sleek and shiny. Where the fuck am I?
I do a quick check of my situation. I'm tired and a little wobbly on my feet, but there doesn't seem to be any injuries or damage. My head is pounding. I push the pain away. I don't have time for a headache.
I feel for the dart that hit me on the neck, but it's no longer there. There's a tiny bit of dried blood where it must have been.
Annoyingly, I know exactly what I was poisoned with. The bitter taste in my mouth, the headache, the slight vertigo - I've experienced that many times during my training. Sweet Apple, called that because it smells that way when heated. Like a summer meadow full of apple trees and flowers. It's easy to make and very effective. It works instantly, causing the target to fall unconscious within seconds. Even better, it doesn't leave traces in the blood after the victim recovers. Or when they die. The only way to figure out if it was Sweet Apple is to recover the dart or to ask the victim about their symptoms. For something with such a pretty name, the aftertaste it leaves is disgusting.
I wish I had a glass of water, but for now, I'll have to do with spitting in a corner. It's not like this is my living room. Whoever brought me here will just have to deal with it.
I walk to the door, checking out the lock. It's modern but not impossible to crack. I have lockpicks sewn into my tunic - no, I don't. I groan. The poison must have affected me more than I thought. How did I not notice that I wasn't wearing my own clothes anymore?
They've put me in a simple t-shirt and tight-fitting trousers that are at least one size too small around the hips. I have no idea how they even managed to zip them up. Not what I'd usually wear, but at least I'm not naked. And yes, I'm trying very hard not to imagine how I was almost naked when they changed my clothes.
I check under my shirt. Luckily, I'm still wearing my bra. Which also means that I have a lockpick. I grin and pull it from under the wiring. I always count on the fact that people won't touch a woman's underwear if they search you. Unless they want to grope you, which usually ends with them dead or missing their balls. Either method works to keep them from doing it again.
I go on my knees and insert the picks into the lock. They're almost a little big for this kind of lock, but I'm sure I'll manage. I may not be as good as Benjamin, but there aren't many doors that will stay locked if I set my mind to it.
Just when I'm about to get the angle right, footsteps are coming from afar, moving towards me. Damn. I hastily push the lockpicks back into my bra and adjust my shirt, then get into position to attack whoever is about to enter my room.
"Are you awake?" a male voice asks from the other side of the door.
I hesitate for a moment, then reply with a sharp, "Yes."
"Stand back. I've got some hot tea and you don't want that all over you, should you try and tackle me."
I frown. Did he mention tea? As if we're going to have a little tea party in here? A relaxed chat with a steaming mug in our hands? I don't think so. Whoever he is, he attacked me, darted me and then kidnapped me. I'm not going to have tea with him. I'm going to make sure he's never going to drink tea ever again.
Still, when the key turns in the lock, I do step back and wait for him to enter. Of course, I'm planning to escape as soon as he takes his first step into the room, but when he does...
I gape at him.
"Lennox?"
He grins. "Nice to see you again, Kat. Sorry about the dart, I didn't recognise you in time."
I can't take my eyes off his face. Lennox. The only boy to ever escape the Pack. Besides me, of course, but I had help. Lennox. The boy who left me behind, left without saying goodbye.
I want to ask him how he got away, want to shout at him for leaving me, want to... but no words come.
He didn't lie about tea. He's carrying a large pot in one hand and two chipped mugs in the other. I could easily run right now. He wouldn't be able to stop me. But... Lennox. I need to know what happened to him. For a while, I was convinced he was dead until I heard a rumour about a white wolf being spotted outside the town. A white wolf with a black spot on his forehead.
He puts the pot and cups on the concrete floor and closes the door behind him. He doesn't lock it, which somehow makes me relax a little. He sits down on the floor, crosses his legs and begins to pour the tea as if this was the most normal situation possible.
I study him, mentally comparing him to the boy I knew. He'd always been tall, but now his bony frame has taken on muscles. His shoulders have become broad and his chest defined. The boy I knew has turned into a man.
He grins and runs his hand through his black hair. I never understood how he could have white fur as a wolf and pitch-black hair as a human. His bright blue eyes are the same though, no matter whether he's shifted or not. They're paler towards the centre and turn into an azure blue on the outside, before being ringed by the same black of his hair.
Now, there's a hint of black stubble on his cheeks and chin as well. Is he trying to grow a beard or did he simply forget to shave?
I force myself to look away from him and take one of the mugs instead, breathing in the scent of the steaming tea. It's good, surprisingly good. But then, he's a trained assassin. We school our senses, especially our sense of smell and taste. We wouldn't be able to work with poisons otherwise. In the end, tea is just another herb, except that it's used to make us feel good rather than to kill or injure.
"I forgot to bring milk, would you like some?" His voice reminds me of dark chocolate that's slowly melting in my mouth. I swallow hard. It must be a side effect of the Sweet Apple poison.
"No, thanks," I reply politely even though I prefer my tea with milk. I don't want to prolong this conversation, however. For some reason, he drugged and kidnapped me, and even though I want to know what he's done all these years, I want to know the reason for my abduction more urgently.
"Why am I here?" I ask while he calmly sips his tea. With his expensive black clothes, he looks almost posh. I have to hide a grin. That was our absolute nightmare when we were children. We never wanted to be posh. Rich, yes, although all that meant for us was never to be hungry and not to be beaten. But we didn't want to be all clever-sounding and well-dressed.
He smiles at me and makes me wait until he puts his mug down. "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time," he says, his eyes meeting mine. They're full of warmth, confusing me. "I'm sorry I had to dart you, but I couldn't risk alerting the people inside. They would have done much worse had they found you."
"You attacked me," I accuse him. "You could have killed me!"
He shrugs. "I didn't recognise you at first. You've changed a lot since I last saw you."
He gives me an appreciative glance, his eyes wandering up and down my body. It seems I've been not the only one checking the other out. Suddenly, I feel even more uncomfortable knowing that it was likely him who undressed me. Before, it was an unknown bad person, but now... This is all very confusing. Too emotional. I need to get myself under control. This isn't me, the child from back then who's happy to see her friend again. No, I'm Kat, the assassin, the owner of Meow, and he's someone who could threaten me doing my job.
"What were you doing there?" he asks me and I laugh darkly.
"You could have asked me before you poisoned me!"
"I already said I'm sorry," he replies, his voice still calm and measured. "I expected to be alone, and I panicked."
"What were you doing ther
e?" I throw the question back at him.
He smiles. "I asked you first."
"Well, you're the one who needs to apologise, so you answer first." I can't help but grin. This almost feels like old times. We constantly argued but we rarely ever had proper fights.
Lennox sighs. "I was there to protect my current employer. He was having a meeting inside and asked me to keep an eye on the perimeter. I didn't really expect any trouble, but then I saw an intruder and had to act. When I realised it was you, I decided to bring you here rather than tell my boss. He doesn't know about you. Yet."
That last word hangs in the air, making a slight shiver run over my back.
"Who's your employer?" I ask warily.
He gazes down at his mug. "I can't tell you that. He's a very private man."
I snicker. Most criminals are. They're private people because they have things to hide. Skeletons in their closets, body parts in their fridges.
Lennox looks up again and meets my eyes. "Now it's your turn. What were you doing there? Did the Pack send you?"
I gape at him. "The Pack?" Of course, he doesn't know. How should he? I laugh. "No, I've got my own company now. I'd give you a business card, but they're in my bag. Which I no longer have." I frown at him in annoyance.
"Sorry, I'll give your stuff back to you once we're done here. But how can you be away from the Pack? Why would they let you go? You were always a thorn in their side, but you were one of their best assets."
His eyes wander to my neck, the place where a collar once sat.
"I had a bit of help," I admit. "I'm on my own now. I have my own team, my own base, my own morgue. And my own cases, one of which brought me to that house."
"But..." He's obviously confused. "The Pack wouldn't just let you go. Even if you managed to escape, wouldn't they try to get you back?"
Suddenly, his expression hardens. "You're lying to me. You're still one of them." His voice turns bitter. "Here I am, being nice, giving you tea, hoping that we could maybe, I don't know, become friends again, while everything you say is a lie. They've trained you well."
Meow Page 8