Taken. Lilith Saintcrow
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of failure. He was strong enough—he should have saved Dad or gone up in flames with the shaman. He’d made the instinctive choice, not the right one.
And an alpha couldn’t ever afford to be instinctive instead of right when it came to choices like that.
Eric handed the bags of food to Brun, who had settled in the passenger’s seat, not daring to comfort his crying twin. The shaman potential, who wouldn’t give her name, perched on the other side of the bench seat, dry-eyed and dazed. She smelled too good to be true, and he had to stop himself from taking deep lungfuls every time the air in the van shifted.
I have screwed this right up, haven’t I? But he hadn’t been thinking, just reacting to the beast’s roar of possessiveness. It had happened so quickly, and she smelled so good, brunette and cold silver light. That smell meant comfort to a Carcajou. It was the shamans who could hold the beast in check, the ice and moonlight in them taking the edge off sharp claws and blood-hunger. Already it was easier to think clearly, even with the numbness in his chest, the part of him that didn’t believe his little brother was gone.
And as soon as she was triggered, she’d belong to them. It wouldn’t take long, not with as strong as she smelled of the potential now. A stray gust of air brought him another load of the silver-smell, and he inhaled gratefully.
Kyle. I wish you were here to see this.
But he wasn’t. And they broke the Silence temporarily to break their fast. Maybe he could talk to the girl, coax her somehow.
“Dead cow ahoy,” Brun said, thrusting three huge wrapped loads of overcooked, oversalted meat and processed bread into his hands. The van started again, Eric wolfing double hamburgers almost whole. The tank was full, courtesy of the stop-and-rob across the street, and they were ready to strike out south. As soon as they finished eating they could keep the Silence again.
“You want some?” Brun had crouched, his head well below the woman’s, submission and conciliation evident in every line of his body. His pheromone wash was submissive, too, tinted with softness. He was the one she was least likely to be terrified of. And the closer he could get to her, the more they could all get their pheromones on her, the sooner she’d trigger and be theirs in truth.
She just blinked at him, holding the rag to her head. “I won’t tell anyone,” she whispered again. “Please just let me go.”
“Don’t worry.” Brun was trying to sound hopeful and soothing; Zach watched carefully, hoping she’d respond. Her scent was alternately far too pale and choking-strong. It could have been shock; it could be that she wasn’t triggered yet. “We’re not going to hurt you. We need you.”
She blinked again, as if she was having trouble focusing. It would just cap everything if she had a concussion. “Did … did Mark pay you? Whatever he promised you, please, don’t believe him. He lies.”
What? Zach didn’t like the sound of that. But he had to take it one thing at a time right now. “Just give her some food. You’d better eat, sweets. You look like you need it.” He almost glanced at the passenger’s seat to gauge Kyle’s reaction, stopped himself only by easing forward and snagging a milk shake. Eric slurped at a root beer, flipping the turn signal and setting the drink in a holder with a practiced motion. He was the best driver, but he would have to be spelled about dawn.
Zach didn’t want to stop at a hotel and give everyone time to think for a little while. He wanted to wait until he had some sort of plan in his head. Besides, he felt better when they were moving. When they were on the road and he didn’t have to think about anything other than the next food stop, the next rest stop, the steady revolution of tires. Driving felt more natural than anything else, and if they stopped he might have to face the mess he’d made of everything.
They had a shaman now. But Kyle was gone. The spirits take with one hand and give with the other, the Tribes always said. But still. Why did they have to take so much?
Brun pressed a cheeseburger and a huge clutch of fries into the woman’s lap, ignoring her flinch, and moved over to Julia, bending over and whispering in his twin’s ear. Julia’s sobs were beginning to grate. She had reason to cry, they all did. But the racking sobs were beginning to take on a whipsawing note that meant Julia was working herself up into a fit or literally crying herself sick, and neither of those things would help the situation.
The floor of the van was littered with clothes, the leatherworking supplies stacked in cases behind the passenger’s seat. Here was his chance. Zach made it to the girl’s feet and offered her the milk shake. “Here. You really need to eat something.” He tried to sound conciliatory. Soothing.
Those pale eyes met his, and he found out they were gray, like a winter sky. He got a good lungful of her, spice and beauty overlaid with the hot grease from the bag in her lap. The thread of ice and moonlight was stronger now, twining through the warp and weft of her aroma like a jasmine vine coming into bloom, but the rest of it … she smelled damn near edible. And familiar, in some way he couldn’t quite place.
She smelled like his. It was that simple. It was a mate smell, and that was going to make things even stickier.
Why couldn’t you have come along earlier, huh?
But that was unfair. She probably had no goddamn idea what she’d just landed in. Which meant it was his job to keep this whole train on the tracks for a while, at least until he could make a stab at helping her understand.
And keeping her here until she was theirs.
She shifted on the seat, pulling her knees back, and the fries were headed for the floor until he caught them, his hand blurring. Quick fingers and quicker reflexes, the Tribe birthright.
It was sometimes the most useful part of the animal inside each of them.
Her eyes were very big, and glazed. Fringed with dark lashes, and behind her smudged glasses he saw fear.
“What’s your name?” He kept his tone nice and even. He had until they finished eating to calm her down a little. Eric slurped at his root beer, and Julia made a little hitching sound. Trying to steal the limelight, again.
The woman stared at him like he was speaking German or something. Finally, she stirred. “Sophie,” she whispered.
“Sophie. That’s pretty. What’s the rest of it?” Nice and easy. Good job, Zach.
“Harr—I mean, Wilson. My maiden name’s Wilson.”
Married? Huh. He didn’t see a ring, but he supposed anything was possible. And maiden name usually meant divorce. “Nice to meet you, Sophie. Listen, you really should eat. You just saw an upir kill two people.” He couldn’t put a nicer shine on it than that. And the more he kept a tone of normalcy, the better she might respond.
Or so he hoped.
She shook her head, and tears stood out in those big dark eyes. “Lucy.” Her lips shaped the word, and he had to stop staring. It was goddamn indecent, how soft her mouth looked.
“Was that her name?” Christ. It was her friend. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: Sophie was a really pretty name. He liked it.
Pay attention to what you’re doing, Zach.
She nodded. Her fingers curled around the milk shake, brushing his, and a jolt of heat slid up his arm from the contact. Married or not, hopefully divorced or not, the animal in him thought she belonged to him.
It was a tricky situation if she was married, but it did happen. Especially with “found” shamans. There were ways to fix it.
Lots of ways. Especially if you made up your mind not to be too overly concerned with playing nice.
She took a long pull off the straw and a tear tracked down her cheek. “She wanted me to have a little fun, that’s all. Since Mark …” Another flinch, and his