Chapter 8 #3
Sweet pain in his fingertips, razors sliding free, and the left-hand claws sank into the flooring as he crouched. She’d lost all her air, attempting to back through the wall, the wash of silent terror from her glands enough to send him careening over into pure madness.
Control yourself, or you’ll die. Clapping a lid on the beast wasn’t easy, especially when it smelled fear on something that belonged to him.
She doesn’t know that, she doesn’t know anything—just fucking settle down!
Words almost vanished in a sheet of bloodhaze fury, but the ice and moonlight sent a silver thread stitching through the fabric of rage.
A fine, 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.
Her mouth was slightly open, as if she’d forgotten just how to speak—would she retreat into catatonia?
His jaw crackled, 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.
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, once his jaw was a shape fit for speech.
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 her terror were painful static across his sensitive nose, cutting through the blandness of hotel room and the comforting, fading blanket of fading musk from his siblings.
He found a few more words, hoped they were at least partially the right ones. “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. They made Tribe into fairy tales, so nobody went hunting his kind anymore. But on the other hand, the horror films and comedies 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 allied with the Ursa Tribe, and we are finer than the Felinii. But we’re not dogs, for God’s sake.
“Are you going to… to eat me?” she whispered. It was impossible for those sweet grey 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. Revulsion shot through him. It killed the animal rage, which was a good thing, but that she could even think that was horrifying. “Of course not. We don’t eat people.”
“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 finally, finally 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 do shit, 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 shit. We’re Carcajou. ”
“Vampire. Right” Her pupils were so dilated her eyes now looked black, only thinly rimmed with silver. She paused, licked her chapped, beautiful 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, 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 greater muscle-bone density granting extra weight.
The mattress groaned once, sharply, its springs taking a sudden load it probably wasn’t designed for.
“Keep trying,” he said, his nose-tip a bare two 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 high as they could manage.
That she would keep them—and especially him—human.
Or at least, human enough that he wouldn’t terrify a woman who probably needed gentleness more than anything else.
Enough that he wouldn’t feel the slip-sliding tug of rage and grief plucking at his control, 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 grant so much to them—but why should she? He was handling 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 from under her lids, her glasses tilted, and visibly braced herself for the worst. So he let go, an inch at a time, and as soon as he could stand to lose the feel of her under him he leapt 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 Zach 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, terrified misery Zach would have a lot of explaining to do—and there weren’t many of his kind who would listen.
He might end up being put on trial, and who would look after his Family then?
In other words, he was right back where he started. And she was worse off than ever.