Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
I tip sideways, let gravity take over, and drop arse-first into the room. Luck—or maybe fate—is on my side as I land squarely on him, cushioning my rapid descent as we both crash to the floor.
Sophie is huddled in the corner, tears streaming down her face.
For a split second, he is stunned—too disoriented to react. That’s all the time I need. Muscle memory kicks in, the product of countless drills over the years. I throw my weight onto his back and snake my arm around his neck, trapping him between my biceps and forearm. My other hand braces the hold as he begins to thrash.
“Go to sleep, you scumbag,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “Go to sleep.”
A properly applied blood choke does not require much strength—just precision. If I compress the carotid arteries and jugular veins correctly, he will be out cold in ten to twenty seconds. But he’s not making it easy.
With a guttural growl, he surges to his knees, the sudden movement jarring my hold. I lock my legs around his waist, clinging like a limpet as he staggers towards the table, trying to scrape me off. The impact sends a shock wave through my shoulder, but I grit my teeth and hold firm.
When that does not work, the slippery scumbag rolls like a crocodile.
My head slams into a cupboard with a sickening crack. Stars dance across my vision. Luckily, the cupboard door breaks instead of my skull. Pain shoots down my spine, and my arm twitches around his neck.
Focus, Lark. Hold on!
It feels like an eternity, but it’s probably only another ten seconds before he shudders and slumps. He is out like a light. I hold the choke for three more seconds, just to be sure, then let him sag lifelessly in my arms.
Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.
Everything hurts. My head is ringing, and my shoulder screams in protest. I shove him off me with a grunt, disgust curling in my chest. A quick pat-down of his pockets yields nothing useful.
His phone screen is cracked, so even if I wanted to see who this ‘mystery mate’ is, I can’t. Besides, someone’s bound to notice he is missing soon, and I have no intention of hanging around when they do.
Annoyed, I yank off his belt and use it to secure his arms behind his back. Then I pull off one of his boots—gagging at the smell—and shove a filthy sock into his mouth.
“I wish I had something better to tie him up,” I mutter, then glance at Sophie. “Are you all right?”
She nods, though the tears keep streaming. “Where did you come from?”
“I hid in the ceiling,” I reply, gesturing upwards.
She looks up. “Oh, wow. That was smart.”
“Thanks. Not how I planned to make my entrance, but I’m glad he chose this room.”
I scan the counter and spot a small collection of weapons: a knife, a pistol, and a dart gun. My stomach churns at the sight of the pistol. I’ve never fired a gun—never wanted to—but suddenly I regret not knowing how.
“Come on, up you get.” I motion for Sophie to stand. “Here’s the plan.” I point to the chair. “Stand on the chair, then step onto the counter. Use the coffee machine to boost yourself up, then pop your head through the ceiling.”
Sophie hesitates, glancing at me and then at the ceiling.
“You’ve got this,” I reassure her, my voice steady despite my racing heart.
Nodding, Sophie takes a shaky breath and begins to climb.
“There’s a vent right in front of you. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice muffled from within the ceiling.
“Okay, you will have to lift yourself and crawl onto it. Wait one second…” I grab a thick tea towel from a drawer. “Here, cover the sharp edges so you don’t scrape yourself. All right? In you go.”
Sophie’s movements are shaky, but she is surprisingly agile, managing to shimmy into the tight space with minimal fuss.
“There’s not a lot of room,” she whispers once she’s settled.
“Yeah, I know.”
She blinks down at me, puffy red eyes wide with worry. Clumps of sweaty blonde hair stick to her face, making her look even younger. “But what about you?”
What about me?
I swallow hard, wincing at the thought of what might come next. Ah well. This is what playing the hero looks like, isn’t it? I force a bright smile. “There’s no room for both of us. See that loose ceiling tile? Yes, that one. Pull it across.”
“But, Lark…” Her lips tremble. “What about you?”
“I will be fine, Sophie.” The words taste bitter, but I manage to keep my tone light. “Stay quiet, and we will get through this.”
Her chin wobbles. “Please. I can’t leave you down there. We can find another way. I can shift?—”
“No.” My voice is firm, but I soften it with a small, reassuring smile. “I will be fine, I promise. Now, go on—close it up.”
Her hands shake as she slides the tile back into place, her movements slow and reluctant.
“Don’t come down until you are positive it’s all clear, okay?” I whisper.
“Okay.”
“All right. Silent now.”
The faint scrape of the ceiling tile settling back into position is the last sound I hear before silence descends.
I exhale quietly, leaning against the counter. My gaze drifts to the wannabe torturer at my feet. It takes everything I have not to boot him in the head. Instead, I grab the dart gun. It makes a satisfying pfft as I fire, a blue-tipped dart embedding itself in his arse.
I nod with grim satisfaction.
Dart gun in hand, I crack the door open and listen. I have no idea where to go next. The main stairs are glass and steel—too exposed. The rear fire exit stairwell is better but still risky. Or I could hunt down another coffee station and climb into another vent.
Yeah, that’s the best option. People rarely look up.
Except these aren’t regular people, are they? I groan and shove the nasty inner voice aside. I’d give anything for shifter senses right now.
The corridor seems clear—quiet enough, at least. Crouching low, I dash down the hall, keeping close to the wall.
As I round a corner, I nearly collide with two armed men.
They freeze.
I freeze.
“Where the hell did you come from?” one growls.
His voice snaps me out of my stupor. Without thinking, I raise the dart gun and fire, not even bothering to aim. The shot hisses. One of them collapses with a heavy thud .
“Oh, shit.” I spin on my heel and bolt in the opposite direction. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit.”
Behind me, the other man’s voice crackles as he shouts into his radio for backup. My breath hitches. Without slowing, I fling my magic behind me, aiming for his earpiece.
I’m not a real mage—barely a magical toddler—but I can disrupt a poxy signal. It’s messy, crude work, but I hope it’s enough to throw them off. Let’s see how they like being unable to communicate.
My trainers squeal against the concrete as I burst through the emergency stairs door, nearly colliding with the wall. They will expect me to go down, so I go up.
When I’m one level higher, I force myself to stop. Sprinting headlong in blind panic won’t help. I grip the stair rail, doing my best to pant silently.
My stomach churns, and my legs tremble. At least the sprint has worn off some of the stiffness in my body. I don’t feel like roadkill anymore—just prey trying to outrun the predator on its tail.
Okay, Lark. You’ve got this. Just keep moving.
I take a deep breath, placing my next step as silently as possible. Futile, really—if shifters are after me, they will smell the sweat and fear oozing from my pores like a neon sign.
I just have to hold on until help arrives.
Behind me, the door below creaks open with a low, ominous groan. I tiptoe upward, every nerve on high alert. The hair on the back of my neck rises—an instinct I can’t explain. My lizard brain screams danger even before the sound reaches me.
A low growl resonates through the stairwell.
Well, there’s no running from that.
What an incredible way to see my first shifter in animal form—while being hunted.
I’m so terrified. I’m shocked I haven’t wet myself. I think it’s a wolf, though I’m no expert. The growl is low and guttural—more dog than cat.
Instead of bolting headlong into certain doom, I pause in the corner. Heart hammering, I drop to the floor, roll onto my belly, and wriggle into position. Flat on the ground, arms outstretched, the dart gun steady in my grip, I hover my finger over the trigger.
I’ve seen people do this on TV. It seems logical to keep the target small, stay on the ground, and keep out of reach.
I’m also higher than the shifter, which has to be a slight advantage. Right?
Ignoring the reality that I’m facing a killing machine with claws and teeth, I steady my breathing and focus.
The shifter below isn’t running. It’s hunting. Stealthy. Precise.
The soft click, click of nails on the concrete stairs reaches my ears—quiet but utterly terrifying.
I swallow hard, my mouth dry as bone.
Closing one eye, I sight down the barrel, using the little bump thingy—whatever it’s called—to aim down the stairs.
I suppose I’m as ready as I will ever be.
All those hours playing Duck Hunt as a kid had better pay off. Thirty-eight years later, Mum, let’s hope you were wrong and it wasn’t all a waste of time. I keep my breathing even, picturing a quacking duck on a bright blue screen—maybe there was a tree or some grass? I can’t remember.
Steady, Lark. Steady.
Another growl echoes, deeper this time. My breath catches as I spot sandy-brown fur shimmering under the emergency lights. Then I see his eyes—glowing amber, lock on me with predatory intent.
Ah, so they do glow when they hunt. Great. Unless he is doing it on purpose to scare the crap out of me.
Steady. Wait until you have more of his body in sight.
The wolf prowls around the corner, his chest coming into view—broad, powerful, muscles rippling beneath thick fur.
I squeeze the trigger.
The dart flies true, hitting centre mass.
He lets out a low whine, his body swaying before slumping, unconscious.
I blink, stunned. Wow. I got another one. New talent unlocked. Let’s hope he is merely unconscious and not dead, dead, because I have no idea what is in these darts. Either way, it’s him or me.
I shake my head, push myself onto my knees, and start to?—
A weight crashes into me from above.
My luck has officially run out.
The wolf has backup.
The dart gun clatters from my hand, bouncing down the stairs. My breath rushes out in a panicked wheeze as I smash into the floor. Twisting, I scramble onto my back, forearms raised to shield my throat as thick white fur presses against them. The wolf’s massive bulk pins me.
I kick wildly, my knees slamming into his underbelly, feet driving at his hind legs, but it’s no use. He is too heavy. His back claws dig into my left leg, shredding muscle like knives. My vision blurs, and I grit my teeth, struggling to keep him at bay as my strength fades.
I’m trapped. I can’t breathe.
All I see are teeth and white fur—snarling, snapping teeth. His breath washes over my face, hot and rancid, a nauseating mix of meat and raw aggression.
My skin crawls; every instinct screams for me to do something.
With no other choice, I drop my right arm and strike, aiming for his ear. The sharp smack echoes as my palm connects. Ear shots are the worst—enough to disorient anyone, human or shifter.
Please work. Please buy me time.
The blow does not disorient him—it enrages him.
He snaps his teeth, and I scream as they clamp down on my arm. Pain explodes, searing and immediate, as though he has torn muscle from bone.
The agony is excruciating, but it fuels me. Driven by desperation, I hammer my fist into his head, over and over, until my knuckles ache and my strength wanes. My blows are clumsy but relentless.
It must annoy him at least, because he shifts his weight, freeing my right side.
My heart leaps with a flicker of hope—then he strikes.
Before I can react, a massive paw cracks across my face. The sheer force sends my head snapping back, and my skull collides with the unforgiving concrete.
A blinding flash of pain explodes behind my eyes, and then?—
Nothing.
The world goes black.