Huntbound (Moonfate Serial Book 2) (8 page)

Orion lunges for the coyote, his jaws snapping toward its neck. It barely dodges in time.

Soon I’m close enough that I notice there’s nothing moving beyond the van’s dark windows. The smoke thickens from gray to black, obscuring the interior.

“Lawrence,” I yell-whisper. “Are you th—” My voice catches on the last syllable and I cough again. There’s still too much smoke out here.

I swallow, squeeze the handle of the gun one more time, and start to open the door. It’s heavy, one of those sliding doors, so I have to really put my full weight into it.

Orion howls, and instinctively I turn toward the sound. It’s a vicious, high cry. Is he okay? But no, I realize, as I stare at Orion’s wolf form. He wasn’t howling in pain, but in anger. The werecoyote had stopped teasing him, but it hadn’t decided to fight. Instead, it’s prancing right toward me.

Oh, fuck.

Orion’s following close behind, gaining enough speed that he should be able to catch him, but only if I run away from the van and lose my position, sacrificing Lawrence in the process. I can’t do that. And I can’t risk the coyote following me in, either. I have only one choice.

I pull out my gun.

I’m not a good shot. I’m not any kind of a shot. I’ve never fired it before. And Orion’s almost right up on the coyote now, barking rabidly.

Orion wants me to run. I know it. But I can’t. My finger trembles on the trigger and the butt of the gun wavers. Oh, fuck, I’m going to do this.

“I’m so sorry, Orion.”

Then I fire.

The discharge happens in a second, and whatever kickback I was expecting is nothing compared to the sound. It rips through my eardrums, making me almost drop the gun in shock.

I know immediately that I’ve missed the coyote. It emerges from the haze, tongue lolling out, white teeth glinting. I should go into the car now, but I have to see. Did I hit Orion? God, please let me not have hit Orion. Oh my God. I’m just as bad as them. Worse.

The coyote’s only a few feet away now, close enough that I can see the red bloodshot lines in its eyes.

Then, out of the same smoke, Orion emerges. His eyes blaze with blue fury, but he’s not looking at the coyote.

He’s glaring at me.

He’s alive. Thank God. Relief gushes through me for a moment, making me forget everything else and weakening my knees so much that I have to lean on the van so as not to collapse.

The coyote yips.

Shit.

I yank open the door just as Orion leaps toward the coyote. As I hurtle into the darkness of the van, my knee hits a couple of shards of broken glass. Adrenalin crowds out the pain, and I barely have time to shove the door closed before the body of the coyote is slamming up against it in a single dull thud.

I flick the lock shut. Once, then twice for emphasis.
Thump.
The werecoyote slams against the door of the van again. I wince. At least he can’t change yet. He has to be in some kind of form able to fend off Orion. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?

I dart back away from the door. Thankfully, because the van landed on its side in a slight gully, the other window is pressed up against grass and dirt.

Unthankfully, that means there’s glass everywhere. Already, I can feel the prickling pain from the broken shards on my palms. Shit.

Thump.
I flinch. That was a much bigger sound. Could that have been Orion? Please let it not be Orion. He can’t die. No one else can die.

I close my eyes for a moment trying to even out my breathing, but it’s hard with the smoke. “Lawrence,” I hiss. Not really expecting him to respond, I’m more using the sound of my own voice to soothe me. To distract me. From what I almost did.

Thump.

Fuck.

The back of the van is empty. No seats. Nothing at all, really, except shards from the windows and the smell. That damn abrasive, chemical smell that stings my nose and makes me cover my mouth so I don’t inhale it. Silver nitrate.

In the corner is what looks like a bit of rope. No Lawrence. Damn it. Where is he?

Careful to keep my balance on the slanted floor of the van, I teeter back to the rope. Maybe he escaped? When I pick up the cord it doesn’t look like it’s been cut anywhere. Although I do notice something below it, a scrap of orange fabric, bright enough to probably be visible from space. It’s from Lawrence’s tank top.

A hysterical sob bursts from my throat. God, I can’t believe I only just last night teased him about wearing this shirt. I snatch the piece of fabric and clench it in my fist so hard my nails dig into my palms and draw blood. My left hand squeezes the gun just as tightly. Lawrence may not be here, but with Orion’s tracking abilities I have no doubt we’ll be able to find him.

If Orion doesn’t kill me first. Will he even help me after this?

My optimism only increases as the ringing in my ears stops. There hasn’t been a thump in the last couple of seconds. In fact, the only sound in the whole van is my breathing. It’s harsh and heavy in my ears. Loud. Too loud.

Every inch of me stiffens with an unnamed fear and I hold my breath.

But the breathing doesn’t stop.

Someone else is in here with me.

My hands flicker to my gun. The front of the van creaks.

Something’s moving now.

“Artemis. I’ve knocked him out. Get out,” Orion shouts from the other direction.

I flinch toward his voice and then back to the front, and meet a pair of bright green eyes bordered by three thin stripes of pied fur, but I don’t focus on them long. Because in an instant there is cold steel pressing against my throat and the eyes are matched to a lithe female body.

She opens her mouth, but it’s not me she’s talking to. “Let go of my mate, wolf! And I’ll let go of yours.”

The coyote’s
mate. She was what the smell was covering up, not Lawrence.

Chapter Thirteen

Some say that werebeasts marking their territory in blood is nothing more than a myth. Perhaps it is. But there is always a little bit of history hidden within our myths. A little truth in a lie. A little bit of reality buried in our dreams.

-
Beasts, Blood & Bonds
by Dr. Nina M. Strike

When I was fourteen, I entered my first-ever singing contest. I remember trembling under the lights, for the first time feeling small in the vastness of the auditorium. As my accompanist began the chords of
Come Raggio de Sole
, all I could think was that I was going to forget to come in at the right time.

And I did.

I missed the entrance, my brain fumbling over the Italian words, leaving the pianist looking up at me with a mixture of disappointment and alarm as she vamped the same chords over and over again.

I think she went another three times around the introduction before I finally remembered. And even then my whole body was tense, spine as taut as wire.

What saved me was that just before the final measure I took a breath. A singing breath that reached through my whole body and found the hidden, forgotten support I had trained into myself.

Now, in the darkness with a knife pressed to my throat, I try to do the same. Yes, I failed to notice her lurking the first time around. But I’m not too late; if I manage to use my werecall right now, I might be able to stop her.

I inflate my lungs with air slowly, hoping she won’t notice.

“WOLF!” she cries. “We’re coming out.”

The trick of singing, and of werecalls too I realize, is to not be afraid of the hidden parts of yourself. A deep breath will always dredge that up. I was trying to use something divorced from me, something I didn’t understand, the gun, instead of the talents I had. That was my mistake.

Just like how I thought I could end the dream by only focusing on the physical, but in the end had only returned to reality by finding out the hidden truth of Orion’s past.

My lower back muscles and generous stomach expand as I fill with air. Then I open my mouth. “Let me go.”

My words seem to resonate through the back of my head. Even before she drops the knife I know that it’s worked.

Unfortunately, that’s where my luck ends. In the split second I spend reveling in my victory, the woman is already recovering from her defeat. She grabs the hilt of the knife from its precarious position balancing on her fingertips and brings it back to my throat.

“Well, aren’t you special? A werecall that works on another weremate. Interesting.” Her other hand snakes around my generous middle and presses me into her bony body, not letting me escape this time. “Don’t speak.” Then she does something even creepier; she presses her long nose into my shoulder blade and inhales. Deeply.

I shudder at the oiliness of her skin touching mine. I know that different werebeasts have different talents. Wolves have particularly strong werecalls, whereas werecoyotes are known for their superb sense of smell. Even stronger than Orion’s. If I have the ability to control people with my voice, it only makes sense that the werecoyote’s mate would have a similar carryover of her mate’s power.

I try to cringe, but in trying to lean away I end up leaning into the knife so I’m forced to move back toward her.

“Oooh, look at that! Now, that’s fun.”

“What—”

“Shut up. Speak again and I’ll slit your throat.” She rotates the hilt of the knife so that the blade nicks my neck. It doesn’t hurt, no more than the broken glass embedded in my knees and palms, but the message is clear. “And stay still.”

Out of plans, I don’t move when she opens the van door with her foot, while still keeping me tightly held. At this point I’m past fear. All I can sense is nausea in my gut.

I’m going to die. People do not get out of these kinds of situations. In the movies, maybe. But not in real life. I learned that with my parents.

Once the door is open, the woman nudges me with the back of her knee. “Get going.”

I look down. In my mad scramble to get into the van the first time I didn’t notice the big step between the van and the ground. But now that there’s a knife pressed to my throat and sudden movements seem suicidal I notice it very much.

“Do it,” she yips.

Careful not to take too deep a breath in case the woman thinks I’m trying to use my werecall again, I step down from the platform onto the ground. It squelches on contact.

“Artemis.”

Without thinking I look up. Unfortunately, my sudden movement sends the blade digging into my flesh once again. Worse, the knife rests on the same cut it made before. But I don’t even wince, because of the sight before me.

Orion stands in human form, over the very still body of a coyote. For a second I think it’s dead, but then I notice that its chest is just barely moving up and down.

Orion’s eyes meet mine and they are a pure, icy blue. For an instant I’m more afraid of him than I am of the knife at my throat. He’s going to kill me for leaving the car. And he
can
kill, I realize now. It’s as easy for him as breathing.

“Wolf,” the woman behind me spits. “Step away from my mate.”

Orion grins. It’s a terrifying expression, all teeth, malice and power. He ignores her request and looks down at the unconscious body of the animal in front of him. “You do the same.”

The woman snorts. “I’m no idiot. You first. I don’t have a death wish.”

“You’re going to die here. The only choice you have is when,” Orion says with incredible calm.

My eyes widen. Oh, God.

I can feel the desperate cry bubbling in the woman’s throat as she stumbles backward, bringing me with her. “Then tell me why I shouldn’t kill her right now, since you’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Because I’ll kill you gently. The tiger standing behind you won’t.”

I feel the woman’s abdominal muscles twitch against me. But she doesn’t turn around. For a second, in spite of the power of the bond compelling me to believe Orion, I feel my own teeth grit in anger. What is he doing, thinking she’ll fall for some kid’s trick? Where the hell is a tiger going to come from?

The woman must think the same thing because she laughs. “Nice try, wolf. But I’m no idiot. Now, you’re going to step away from John, or I’ll slit your pretty little — or should I say big — mate’s throat. I know you’re thinking that I’ll do that anyway, even if you don’t, but I won’t. She smells like old blood, and the boss will be interested in that. You may never see her again but—”

Whatever the coyote’s mate meant to say is cut off as a giant mass of fur and claws sends us both careening to the ground.

Chapter Fourteen

Four hundred pounds of animal collide with my captor and me, although I can’t be sure it is a tiger. All I know is that it’s furry and sharp and a damn miracle that the woman’s knife doesn’t slice open my throat as we all tangle on the ground. Claws and steel hurricane around me in a storm of orange and black.

The sounds are enough to get me to try to move away. The crunch of jagged teeth biting down on bones. But I only manage to gain a few inches of distance before someone else is grasping me. Pulling me to my feet roughly.