Chapter 8
eight
A day’s worth of driving had them a safe five hundred miles away, even with bathroom and food breaks. Far enough that Zach couldn’t avoid having them stop, but a reasonably comfortable distance from a rabid upir attack.
They kept the Silence save during mealtime, and there seemed no reassurance capable of getting the new shaman to open up. She didn’t even respond to Brenn’s gentle mealtime questions.
She outright refused to eat, just huddled against the wall under his coat and stared reproachfully at them all. When the Silence returned she trembled and closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. It was a good try, and he let her keep the illusion.
Julia loftily ignored the girl except for a bathroom break, and Zach saw his sister pinch her arm as they hurried toward another rest-stop bathroom.
He let that go; at least he’d persuaded her into socks and a pair of Brenn’s old trainers.
Another night in their company, smelling them, would trigger her—if proximity hadn’t started the biochemical processes already.
Found shamans took much longer than born to adjust to Tribe life, to the responsibility and the shock of finding out the world held more than just regular old bleeders.
Then again, most found shamans were taken into a regular Family and trained by another of their peculiar kind, finding and shifting to a Family of their own later.
They weren’t taken off the street right after an upir attack by a half-wild shamanless Family who had just lost their alpha.
It was the very worst possible scenario.
And there was another thing. The instinct that had compelled him to grab her was circling the bottom of his mind even now, whispering other things.
Like, Look at that hair, even all tangled up it’s pretty and it smells like sunshine. Or, Those hips have a nice curve to them, don’t they?
Or how about, Her lips look pretty kissable when she purses them like that.
And something less pleasant. We’re being followed.
Dusk fell in cold streaks of scarlet and orange, the Silence fraying naturally on its own.
Clouds massed on the horizon along with the glow of a good-size city; a hotel on the fringes wasn’t hard to find.
They were damn near flush with cash, so he sent Eric in to get a room, then shepherded his weary Family up the stairs to a nice little room with two queen beds and a kitchenette, not to mention a television Julia immediately turned on and a bathroom the new shaman looked longingly at.
The flannel shirt was far too big for her, though it was his.
The sight of her wrapped in something he wore regularly was guaranteed to distract him—just like the her tantalizing aroma mixing with his smell, rolling off the fabric.
Right into the middle of his skull, in fact, and hitting him right below the belt as well.
Brenn hopped out to get food; Julia and Eric were sent to get toiletries, things the new shaman would need.
That left him alone in the room with her, and as soon as the silence closed around them she edged for the bathroom, shutting the door with a bang audible even through the television’s yapping.
He turned the squawk-box down and drew the curtains, spending a few minutes watching the parking lot.
The animal at the bottom of his mind crouched, watchful and tense.
There was no real proof they were being followed…
but there it was. The itching between his shoulderblades and the nagging in his gut just wouldn’t go away.
Trust that feeling, son, Dad’s voice rumbled inside his head. It’s your best friend, and it’ll keep you and your Family safe.
His father.
That wasn’t a good or helpful thought, so he shut it away. The smell of smoke wouldn’t quite retreat until he took a few deep breaths and reminded himself that he had problems in the here and now, so thinking about the past wouldn’t solve them.
Sundown meant Kyle’s spirit was safely over the border now, well into the shifting realm of the majir. Which meant he had to talk to her, and try not to screw it up too badly.
He gave her ten more minutes, then turned the television off and tapped at the bathroom door. “You can come out, sweetheart. We need to talk.” The sooner you understand a few things, the better off everyone will be.
Nothing. No sound of running water, no sniffles, just deathly silence. He was sure there was no window in there; he’d checked. Still, his hand hovered above the doorknob. It would be a simple matter to snap a cheap hotel-door lock and walk in.
He didn’t have the faintest idea who this girl was.
Sophie, okay. Married once, possibly married again.
Curly hair and steel-rimmed glasses, vulnerable wintry eyes and curves to make a racetrack die of envy.
She smelled good, but among Carcajou there was such a thing as courting a female.
Even when she smelled like she was his already, her pheromones striking sparks against his sensitive nose.
He knocked again, suddenly acutely aware that he was unshaven, reeking of unwilling attraction and acrid worry, still wearing the same clothes he’d been in last night—probably spotted with blood, as well. She was bound to be confused, upset. He’d have to handle her carefully.
Yeah. Like you have a clue how to deal with a bleeder girl. You’ve been doing a bang-up job so far.
He’d been too young to even think about mating while his parents were alive, and the gatherings where young people of each Tribe eyed one another and courted were closed to his Family once they were on their own.
Human women mostly smelled like prey, not mates.
His entire knowledge of what to say to a female bleeder came from television. Julia was no help at all.
A slight scraping noise was his only reward.
What’s that? Zach listened so intently he could hear her pulse, quickening now, and the soft sough of respiration.
Up to something in there. Huh. He knocked again, softly.
“Look, I’m not going to hurt you, no matter what you think.
I’ll explain everything. Just come on out, Sophie. Is it short for Sophia?”
Another soft sound—possibly a laugh? The animal in him perked its ears, expectant. It was like hunting, waiting patiently for food to appear.
Only she wasn’t prey. She was something else. Something good, something he wanted to run down and fill his mouth with.
“Come on.” He touched the doorknob, running his fingers over its curve. Not nearly so nice as her shoulder, or those hips. “At least say something.”
That worked, at least partially; a muffled answer barely managed to pierce the door. “Go away.”
But her breathing was high and harsh now, her pulse thudding like she was in pain. There were other scratching, wrenching noises under the thunder of stress-laden breathing.
What the hell? He twisted the knob—breaking any pretensions it had to locking—and pushed the door inward, opening his mouth to ask if she was hurt.
The blow came out of nowhere. Faster reflexes saved him; he ducked and caught the bar in one hand, her surprising strength sending a shock all the way down his arm.
She was screaming like a banshee suddenly, trying to wrench it away—the cheap towel rack, pried loose from the wall.
He smelled blood, too; instinct woke in a red blur.
He ripped the thing out of her hands and caught her wrist as she flew at him, still screaming.
She flailed at him with her other fist until he caught that too, trapping both wrists in one hand and yanking her into a spin; she weighed less than a feather.
With that done, he dragged her out of temporary shelter.
There was a clear space next to the bathroom door, between the jamb and a closet holding an ironing board and hangers permanently attached to a much more robust rod.
Good thing she didn’t grab that one. Bleak amusement flashed through him for a bare moment.
Her shoulders met the wall with a tooth-rattling thump. She kept struggling until he got her arms up over her head and pressed against her, bloodscent tease-taunting the beast and the acrid reek of a shaman’s fear tearing at his control.
Goddammit. She pitched from side to side, mad with fear, and tried to bite him. Her mouth landed against his shoulder, she drove her teeth in again and he froze, fingers clamping hard until she made a small hurt sound, the only interruption to her screaming.
Biting him, again. Teeth in flesh, a promise and spur all at once. A crimson wave washed through him, and he almost lost it right there.
Control. Memory rose—he was twelve years old, and the alpha’s fingers were crushing the back of his neck, holding him still. Control the beast. We are people, we are Carcajou. We are not savages.
Still, with a shaman in an ecstasy of fear, accidents could happen. Bad accidents. And she had no idea that her teeth in his hide were an enticement.
She tried kneeing him, but he was pressed so close there was no leverage, a slim softness between him and the unforgiving wall.
The ice-and-moonlight smell broke over him; confusion between the obedience to that smell bred into every Carcajou’s bones and the response to the feel of her turning him in circles again.
The sunshine aroma of her hair filling his nose, its softness rubbing against his stubble as he buried his face in tangled curls, gave him bare seconds to take a breath before drowning.
He returned to himself piecemeal, a trembling woman caught between him and the wall, his fingers tight around her wrists and violence just a hairsbreadth away.
Oh, God. Control yourself, goddammit; nobody can do it for you! You’re not a savage. You’re Carcajou.