Chapter 7 #2
Forty feet away, the man coughed behind a raised newspaper.
Her feet were indeed getting to blessed numbness; she stepped on a pebble and winced.
Going habitually barefoot at home was nothing like this.
The jeans were raspingly unfamiliar, and she really wanted nothing more than her own kitchen, her ratty chenille robe, and a hot cup of coffee.
And a Danish. A warm one, dripping with icing and with chunks of apple drenched in brown sugar.
She could almost taste sweet pastry, and hurried up. Thirty feet. Twenty-five.
Fresh morning air was still except for the hum of traffic from the freeway. What was she going to say? This isn’t a joke. I’ve been kidnapped. Please help me.
She practiced the words inside her head, clutching borrowed clothes to her chest. One heel dug into her left biceps. A sluggish breeze started, caressing her tangled hair; the sky was still orangeish in the east. At home she’d probably still be in bed, and if Lucy stayed over—
Sharp pain jabbed her heart. Oh, Lucy. Luce. God.
The rattling in her head got worse. Fifteen feet. Ten.
She opened her mouth—and let out saved breath in a sigh when the man looked up, his hazel eyes caught in a net of crinkles, his smile immediate and genuine.
The buzzing rattle stopped.
A heavy arm fell over her shoulders. “Cup of coffee, sweetheart?” her kidnapper said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Sophie’s entire body, desperate to cringe, was instead frozen in place. She stared at the old man, willing him to realize she’d been about to ask him for help. The sore spot under her hair throbbed, and her cheek was on fire.
“What a pretty young miss.” A wavering tenor; the old man grinned even wider, if that were possible. She saw the thick, heavy plastic-framed glasses dangling on a chain at his chest, and her heart sank. “I call all the young girls ‘miss.’ Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” The kidnapper’s arm tightened. “Make that three coffees, please. And probably a doughnut for her, too. We’ve been driving all night.”
“Family trip?” The man, nearly cross-eyed, eased off his stool, began shuffling around the small booth. “Reason I ask is, I heard your van door.”
Zach—that was his name—grinned easily. “Yeah, heading south. Warmer down there.” His arm tightened further, and her kidnapper, of all things, bent down and kissed the top of Sophie’s head, inhaling deeply.
As if smelling her. She writhed inwardly with embarrassment; what was she supposed to do? Start screaming?
What would he do if she did?
A sudden crystalline image from last night burned through her brain, from right before she’d run off like a panicked rabbit. It was the thing that had killed Lucy, snarling and champing its too-big, gleaming razorteeth, while Zach’s shape changed like clay under running water.
Growing fur.
Sudden certainty nailed her in place, chill concrete biting her soles. I didn’t imagine a goddamn thing, I saw it. That’s what made me run. I saw it all.
“Oh, I hear ya, I hear ya.” The old man shrugged, setting out three foam cups, settling a big pink bakery box on the small counter.
His filmy hazel eyes wandered, refusing to focus.
“Honey, why don’t you just peek in there and see if there’s a doughnut you like?
I got apple fritters, and Bismarcks, and all sorts of good things. Fresh this morning, too.”
Sophie swallowed hard, her throat making a tiny clicking noise. Zach-the-kidnapper bumped her, almost gently, and she was suddenly very sure that if she didn’t try to act normally, something dreadful would happen.
Like something “happened” to Lucy? He said they weren’t going to hurt me.
He could have been lying. She’d heard “I’m not gonna hurt you” before. If she had a quarter for every time, she wouldn’t have to worry about scraping together rent for a year.
The kidnapper used his free hand to open up the top of the bakery box.
“See anything good?” He sounded concerned.
Morning light was kind, running over the shadow of stubble, the thin nose, dark eyes a lot of women probably liked.
His hair was a soft mess except for the wiriness of the white streak.
One stubborn wave fell over his forehead, and he actually grinned down at her like he was having a grand old time.
Sourness filled in her throat. He’d kidnapped her, and had the effrontery to smile, to put his arm over her shoulder like he owned her?
“I’m not hungry,” she managed through the stone in her throat. “But thanks.” She stared at the old man, her eyes burning, her lips trembling. Look at me. Please see me. Please help me.
“Dieting? Never did anyone any good, honey. First three letters of diet are a warning, that’s what they are.
” He wasn’t looking at her; he was filling the coffee cups from a pump thermos, frowning slightly and probably judging each cup by the number of squeezes needed instead of by sight.
She tried leaning away from Zach’s arm, but it was useless.
Her feet were almost fully insensate, blocks of raw meat.
“My wife used to say that. Cream and sugar?”
“Only in one.” Zach peered into the bakery box, pulling her with him. “And I think we’ll take two of these apple fritters. They look nice.”
“You go ahead now. That’ll be three dollars for the coffee, young man. You just take those fritters as a gift from me.”
“Why, thank you.” He sounded so normal, so nice, as if he hadn’t kidnapped a woman and killed—
Oh, my God. He killed that thing, didn’t he? “Upir,” he said. Her head hurt just thinking about it, spikes of glassy migraine through her temples.
Nobody would miss her for another twenty-four hours at least, and by then, who knew how far away they would have taken her?
Her ferns would die, she wouldn’t be at work Monday morning, and good old Battle-Ax Margo the office manager would have a conniption.
Nobody knew she’d gone out with Lucy, and Luce was between boyfriends.
What was happening right now? Were the police trying to find her? Trying to find Lucy’s car keys?
If I hadn’t divorced Marc someone would be missing me right now—but if I hadn’t run away in the first place I wouldn’t have been out last night. The urge to scream rose in her chest, was strangled.
Zach moved again. She flinched, swaying, but he was handing her two monstrous apple fritters wrapped in a napkin, tucking them atop the clothes clutched to her chest. “Here. Hold these, sweetie. Why don’t you head on back to the car, and I’ll bring your coffee?”
The old man chuckled. She realized he was not merely shortsighted; he wasn’t interested in anything out of the ordinary. “My wife was like that. Bit of a bear in the morning without her coffee, God bless her.”
“Go on, now.” Zach-the-kidnapper gave her a meaningful look, and when Sophie snapped a glance over her shoulder she saw the two other men at the van’s open side door, watching intently. They all had those weird pale stripes in their hair, like a dye job gone wrong. Maybe it was a gang sign?
Yeah, like the badass Lady Clairols. Come on, Sophie. Think of something!
There was nobody else around, and what could the old man do?
Absolutely nothing. She was just as helpless now as she’d been last night.
“Fine.” She backed up as Zach’s heavy arm fell to his side. If she stepped on anything sharp now she would bleed, too numb to care. Each step was another jab of freezing pain up her legs. Even her toes felt clumsy.
The younger boy, sitting with his legs dangling just outside the door, eyed her intently as she edged unwillingly closer. He was a male copy of Julia, but instead of looking spoiled and unfinished he possessed a perpetually worried grin and a hunch to his shoulders, painfully uncertain.
“You okay?” he asked softly, tilting his striped head. His big dark-brown eyes were red-rimmed but seemed kind, and his nose slightly chapped from crying.
The other one, bigger and broad-shouldered but not so tall as Zach, had oddly piercing blue eyes. He regarded her warily, hunching inside a tattered leather jacket. One arm bent, wrist raised to his mouth, and his strong white teeth worried at his coat-cuff.
No, I’m not okay. How could I be anything like okay? But some instinct made her free a hand from the clothes, holding out the fritters despite the way her stomach growled for something, anything. “Here. These are for you.”
“Hey, thanks!” The younger one grabbed a pastry, took a huge wolfish bite, and grinned without any uncertainty at all.
The blue-eyed one accepted the remainder slowly, but at least he stopped snacking on his sleeve.
“I’m Brenn. This is Eric. He’s our cousin-brother.
Gee, aren’t your feet cold? Come on up.” The boy moved aside, and Sophie mechanically climbed into the van.
At least it got her off the concrete.
They both peered at her, the one in the leather jacket nibbling at his fritter now.
“These are really good,” Brenn continued. “Are you really a shaman?”
“She’s a found shaman, not even triggered. She wouldn’t know, not yet.” The blue-eyed one—Eric—eyed her speculatively. “This means we can settle down somewhere.”
“You think? It’d be nice. We haven’t settled anywhere since the farm…” Maddeningly, Brenn stopped, and gave a shy smile. A sad puppy gaze glimmered at her; what kind of life did he have, that he considered snatching off the street normal? “It’s nice to meet you. You’re going to take care of us?”
It was too absurd to even guess at an answer. “You kidnapped me.” She sounded flat and unhelpful even to herself. “I’m supposed to take care of you?”
“We’re Carcajou.” Eric shrugged, shoulders clearly packed with muscle under the jacket. “Makes no sense to you now, but it will. And Zach’s—”
“Zach’s what?” The primary kidnapper was at the door suddenly, his shadow filling the entire aperture, and the other two fell silent. “Coffee, Eric. Courtesy of our new shaman. Isn’t she sweet?”
“Breakfast?” Julia arrived, fresh as a daisy, her glossy hair combed and her face pink from scrubbing. Sophie’s skin crawled; her mouth tasted like ashes. “Where’s mine?”
“You don’t get any,” Zach said, pleasantly enough. “I told you to watch her.”
“She’s right here.” Julia’s lower lip stuck out; the girl looked supremely confident that she would get her way.
“Get in the van. If we lose our shaman like we lost our alpha, I’m holding you responsible. Even if it’s not on your watch.” Zach’s smile didn’t change, but something in his face shifted, and the morning grew fractionally more chilly.
Sophie eased back into the van’s almost-comforting cave, suddenly very sure something awful was about to happen. She’d felt this sensation before, whenever Marc was a certain type of quiet or smelled too strongly of malt liquor when arriving home.
But Julia just bowed her head and hopped into the van. They all moved so gracefully, it was unreal. The remaining kidnappers piled in as well, and Sophie was suddenly squashed in a press of warm bodies.
Zach thrust a steaming foam cup into her hands. “Cream and sugar, sweetheart. And then we’ll figure out getting you a toothbrush and everything. You’re probably not ready for life on the road.”
That is such an understatement. Sophie stared at him. The van door heaved shut, blotting out the parking lot—might as well be the surface of the moon, and did her exactly as much good.
Weird crackling quiet folded over all of them. She was about to say something—plead, maybe, or point out again that they were kidnapping her, or something equally useless. But the odd silence filled every corner of the van, stopped the words in her throat.
The engine roused again, and she found herself on the bench seat once more, huddling against the vehicle’s far wall, coffee cup trembling in her cold hands, her face aching and feet nearly blue with cold.
She was trapped.
At least, for now.