Her hands had curled into fists. “You’ve kidnapped me.” A very low, dangerous tone, stroking his skin until he felt the urge to shiver. “What you’re doing is illegal and wrong. You let me leave right now and I won’t go to the police. I’ll go home and forget about this, and go to work Monday morning. If you don’t, I swear to God I’ll—”
You’ll do what? Leave us to die one by one? His temper almost snapped. “What? Try to kill me? We can hold you for years until you calm down, shaman. Play nice with us. You said yourself nobody would pay for you. What the hell is back in that city you want so much? Your husband, maybe?”
Her immediate flinch, and the sharp note of fear cutting through her scent, warned him just before the animal lunged for freedom again. Her eyes turned big and wounded; her hands pulled back toward her chest and raised a little as if to ward off a blow—
The Change ran through him like a sword of hot glass, bones crackling and fur rippling. He fought it, desperately trying to retain control, but the animal knew better than he did, had seen something he hadn’t.
Your husband, maybe? A flinching woman. A flinching, frightened woman. His claws stretched, sliding free, and his left-hand ones sank into the flooring as he crouched. She’d lost all her air, backing up until she hit the wall again, not even screaming, the wash of terror from her glands enough to send him careening over into pure madness.
Control yourself! Clapping a lid on the beast wasn’t easy to do, especially when it smelled fear on something that belonged to him.
She doesn’t know that, she doesn’t know anything—just fucking control yourself! Words almost vanished in a sheet of red, but the ice and moonlight sent a silver thread through the crimson, stitching it together. It was a fine thread, a thin thread, and his human side clung to it with every ounce of strength it could scrape together.
Fur receded, claws slid back home, and she was staring at him, glassy-eyed with terror. Her mouth was slightly open, as if she’d forgotten everything she wanted to say. His jaw crackled, taking on a shape fit for human speech again, bone moving under the skin, muscles stretching and shrinking. Hunger tore across his midsection—it took a lot of energy to fuel the Change, even more to hover just on the edge of it.
He backed away, despite the howling of the thing inside him that wanted to leap on her. Her legs went; she slid down the wall and sat with a bump, her teeth clicking together hard.
“I’m not crazy,” she whispered, between deep whistling breaths. “I’m not. I’m not.”
“You’re not,” he agreed hoarsely. At least, you seem pretty normal to me. But what would I know? That was a good thought, a rational human thought, and he clung to it. The sharp bursts of terror from her were like painful static across his sensitive nose, cutting through the blandness of hotel room and the comforting blanket of fading musk from his brothers and sister. “I promise you’re not.”
“You’re a werewolf.” She said it flatly, like she’d watched all the movies and had everything figured out.
Great. Sometimes he wondered if the movies were worth it. They made Tribe into fairy tales, so nobody went hunting them anymore. But on the other hand, they made things like this…difficult.
“Carcajou,” he corrected. “It’s different. You don’t know how different. And we need you, Sophie.”
“I’m not crazy,” she repeated. “You’re a werewolf.”
“The Wolf Tribe’s different. We’re Carcajou.” It probably didn’t mean squat to her, but still, the comparison rankled. We’re not dogs, for God’s sake. We’re allied with the Ursa Tribe, and we are finer than the Felinii. But we’re not dogs.
“Are you going to…eat…me?” she whispered. It was impossible for her gray eyes to get any bigger. Fever spots stood out high on her cheeks, and her smudged glasses were askew. She didn’t even seem to notice.
Jesus. A bolt of revulsion shot through him. It killed the animal rage, which was a good thing, but that she could think that was horrifying. “Of course not. We don’t eat people. We’re not savages.”
“You don’t…” She blinked, going pale almost as rapidly as she’d flushed. “That’s a relief.” Amazingly, she looked—and sounded—calmer. “But why would you want to kid—” Another thought crossed her mobile little face, and he congratulated himself on making some progress. “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “That thing that killed Lucy. That was a—”
Not too shabby. Quick on the uptake, even. “Like I said, you’d call it a vampire. But it’s not like the movies, honey. Running water and crosses won’t stop them, and a stake will only make them mad. Unless it’s wielded by a Djombrani.” He shrugged, cautiously. Maybe the movies were good for something, if they gave her a handle on what was happening. “But we don’t mess with that Gypsy shit. We’re Carcajou.”
“Vampire.” Her pupils were so dilated her eyes looked black, rimmed with silver. “Right.” She paused, licked her lips. “Werewolves.” Another long pause. “Right?”
“Right,” he echoed. Are we finally making some progress?
“Right.” And she scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door.
He caught her halfway there, taking her legs out from under her and shoving so she landed on the bed. Which was all sorts of tempting, so he followed, pinning her, careful of his greater density. The mattress groaned once, sharply, its springs taking a sudden load it probably wasn’t designed for. “Keep trying,” he said, his nose inches from hers. “We’ll catch you every time, shaman. We need you.”
“Nobody needs me.” Her pupils shrank, her gaze losing its shock and fuzziness. “The only person who needed me is dead in that alley and you’ve kidnapped me. I am not going to be trapped again. I won’t do it. You’d better let me go. You’d just better.” Her voice broke on the last word, and he cursed himself.
Here he was scaring the hell out of her, when he should be explaining, gently and patiently, that she could do more good with them than with anything she’d left behind. That she was their passport to rejoining their entire fucking species. That they couldn’t afford to let her go, that they would do anything she asked except let her go. That she was a shaman, for God’s sake, and all she had to do was snap her fingers and they would jump.
That she would keep them—and especially him—human.
Human enough that he wouldn’t terrify a woman who probably needed gentleness more than anything else. Human enough that he wouldn’t feel the slip-sliding tug of rage and grief plucking at his control. Human enough that he could get through five or six breaths without wanting to beat his head into the walls and keen for his brother, for his Family, for the whole goddamn messy situation.
It would take so little from her to do so much for them—but why should she? He was doing everything exactly wrong, and he couldn’t figure out how to do it right for the life of him.
And here he was on top of her, on a bed, and she had gone very still.
Too still.
She’d closed her eyes, tears welling out from under her lids, her glasses tilted, and visibly braced herself for the worst. So he let go of her, an inch at a time, and as soon as he could stand to lose the feel of her under him he leaped free of the bed and put his back to the door.
She curled into a small ball and sobbed, each small hitching breath tearing at his heart.
Maybe one of the others could make her understand. Because he had a sinking feeling he’d just fucked up his one chance. She didn’t have a shaman to train her, and if they ran across other Tribe who found her in this state of abject misery and terror Zach would have a lot of explaining to do—and there weren’t many Tribe who would listen. He might end up being put on trial, and who would look after his Family then?