Daybreak (2 page)
Taking a break, gathering her patience once again, she craned her neck toward the truck’s covered top. A gray-green grime covered the canvas like mold. Elaborate twine stitching revealed where scraps had been pieced together to form a whole sheet of fabric, or repaired through the years. The tarp stretched over a lightweight frame of sturdy chicken wire that arced like an igloo over their heads. Hooks stuck out from metal studs spaced two meters apart. Loops screwed into the floorboards held fast to chains and shackles.
Custom-made for hauling human beings.
Red soaked over Pen’s vision. Hatred and purpose fused. She yanked hard. Her wrist popped free, smeared with her own blood.
She quickly turned her back to the guards and set to work on her other arm. The tingling in her fingertips as sensation returned was almost as painful as the gash on her wrist. She ignored it, concentrated, freed herself.
“Hey!”
Pen froze.
Damn.
Slaves pulled their bare feet back from the guard’s boots as he used the handholds along the studs to maneuver toward Pen. “Face front, you!”
She tucked her hands out of sight, slipping her wrists back into the loosened restraints. Worst case, she’d disorient him with a touch of magic. Again, she’d be left vulnerable and depleted, but it was a better option than losing control.
Stay in the truck. Keep the prisoners safe.
With her shoulders hunched forward, she angled her body to face forward once again.
“Look at me.” The guard used the toe of his boot to raise her chin. The stench of mildewed leather dominated her next breath, as if the rot of the Everglades had hitched a ride.
Long ago, when the Change upended the whole world, Pen had been a frightened little girl. She didn’t like how easy it was to return to that feeling. But it always came back, as did seeing her mother when she closed her eyes. She channeled that helplessness and utter despair.
Whatever she dredged up from those dark places must’ve been enough to satisfy the man. He didn’t check her fastenings. Only grinned. A puckered scar that looked like a silver ladder ran down his throat. It shook when he chuckled.
Strange that of all the disgusting sights and smells in the truck, and of all the horrors that likely awaited her at camp, Pen shuddered because of his scar. She couldn’t say why. But the revulsion and fear he’d needed to see in her eyes felt real enough. She couldn’t look away from his ruined skin.
“Another pretty one,” he said. “O’Malley will be pleased. We don’t get many as pretty as you up in the mountains. Man’d have to turn queer or fuck a pine tree just to give his hand a break.”
Pen grabbed the man’s flash of memory. She could discern geographic features and weather patterns, although not as precisely as an actual map. She squirreled away the clues he inadvertently provided. Rumor had long since suggested that General O’Malley lived in a fortress hideaway, somewhere in the Appalachians. What this guard revealed didn’t change her best guess. But she still needed to confirm its location, which meant arriving at an O’Malley camp staffed by more than just hired thugs.
Only then might she be able to convince the Mäkinen camp to mount an army. She’d die for the right cause, but trust her own leadership? No way. Too many ghosts and auras and blood-streaked memories made her doubt her sanity, let alone her ability to see to the safety of others.
But that meant finding the camp. Arturi Mäkinen was as much the stuff of legend as she was. Only, what if the pull she felt toward his haven was just another of the crazy voices she’d battled for years?
Pen fought her despair, only to find the guard leering at her breasts.
You’ll never get a taste.
A guard like him wouldn’t ever earn enough to sample the flesh he peddled. Not unless he turned on his boss and went rogue. And that never ended well.
The brakes squealed. The truck lurched as it slowed.
With his hand only loosely gripping a handhold, the guard tumbled toward the front. Pen fell from her relaxed restraints and somersaulted into another woman’s thigh, killing her momentum.
Another shriek of the brakes brought the truck to a full stop.
She threw a glance over her shoulder. The other guard was too busy checking his weapon to notice her. Keeping low, she crawled back to her spot. But before she could return her wrists to the wire fetters, she froze. A tingling prickle of awareness clawed like a cat walking up her spine. Someone was coming. Someone with magic.
She knew the difference between ordinary humans and those blessed—or cursed, depending—with gifts bestowed by the Change. No one in the truck. Whoever she felt was coming from the outside.
Two shots fired. Shotguns, by the sound.
The guard with the scar scrambled to his feet. He made it to the middle of the truck, halfway to his partner, when he froze, too. Likely not because he felt magic.
Likely, it was because of the lion’s roar.
The hairs on Pen’s arms lifted. From deep in her chest came a primal response. In ancient times, men had learned to craft weapons to defend their families from that sound. Hunter and hunted. Kill or be killed. Predators fighting for control of their territory.
The roar came again, this time as the rear canvas split down the center. A huge male lion leaped into the truck. Captives screamed, but none so loudly as the guard at the back. His frantic burst of terror didn’t last long. The golden beast’s powerful jaw cut it short. A quick shake of his massive neck ensured his opponent was dead.
Pen gave up on pretense. She freed her arms and scrambled to the end of the truck nearest the cab. The guard with the scar stood between her and the massive cat. No telling what the beast intended. Feral skinwalkers were as much a danger as human scum like O’Malley’s people.
The guard raised his weapon—something automatic with a sight for night vision. Leaping, the lion closed the half-dozen meters and landed on the man’s chest. The gun fired. More than one bullet. Screams erupted from the back of the truck. The guard hit the bed of the truck with the sickening crack of fracturing bone. Maybe his sternum? His spinal column? Not that it mattered. He lay motionless, eyes blank, beneath the lion’s broad paws. The impressive weapon lay idle in his lifeless hand.
Pen scoped out the situation. She’d have only a second of warning if the animal went for the prisoners.
Instead, the lion sniffed the air. He swiveled his strong neck, thick with a wild mane, as if appraising the truck’s contents. An eerie, sky-blue gaze locked with Pen’s.
A hot spark of déjà vu replaced cold fear. She frowned. The lion sniffed again but moved no closer. She stood, her fingers at her back to use the chicken wire as support. Her thighs trembled, but the tingling return of sensation to her lower legs bordered on misery.
“May I have the gun?”
Her voice sounded peculiar in the near silence. No engine noise. No shouts. Only a few sniffles as the slaves took stock of the mangled bodies.
The lion glanced at the weapon in the fallen guard’s useless grip. He almost seemed to . . . shrug. And turned away.
Pen wasted no time in claiming the weapon. Staying in the truck was useless now, her mission scrapped. Even if the lion had left any of O’Malley’s people alive, they’d be unlikely to give up additional details of the camp’s location. The best she could do now was free the captives and see that they escaped.
Her best opportunity. Ruined.
Finger on the trigger, she was tempted—just for a moment—to take out her frustration on the lion as he stalked away.
But he had obviously acted with purpose. Killing the guards. Walking away from the defenseless. Some skinwalkers became entirely animal—not as vicious as the demon dogs that still roamed unchecked, but without enough humanity to make distinctions. Flesh was food. Simple as that.
This big cat obviously thought otherwise.
Pen followed him, signaling the others to remain still. She kept the gun at the ready, although she doubted her reflexes. The guard hadn’t stood a chance when the lion decided to strike.
The air at the back of the truck glowed. Warmth coated her exposed skin like the sun emerging from clouds. Pen stared in momentary amazement as the lion shifted. She rarely got to witness the transformations. Jenna Barclay, one of her guardians for many years, had been a skinwalker unashamed of her abilities. But most lived like creatures in the woods, unwilling to be seen. Others retained their human forms within little clusters of society, because O’Malley had hunted them since he came to power.
This . . . this was incredible.
The lion’s skeleton realigned, shrinking and warping into the form of a naked man. His lean street fighter’s body was a map of sinew and defined muscle. Fur retracted to reveal skin. Pale skin. Dark hair. She stared for long moments in captivated silence. Something about him plucked at her memories.
Pen hadn’t expected goose bumps. But then, she hadn’t expected to recognize him either.
“I know you,” she whispered. “I
know
you.”
know
you.”
He raised a brow. “Then what’s my name?”
“Tru Daugherty.”
TWO
Tru stared. The woman’s words snared him because he’d told so damn few people his real name. This world didn’t call for intimacy. Didn’t call for anything.
Nietzsche would’ve loved the hell out of the Change.
Though he was naked, he took his time studying her. His gaze skated over her dirty face. Decent bones, good body—if a little thin, but that was common. Few people had the luxury of overeating. She had killer eyes, indigo like a night sky over the ocean, fringed in dark gold lashes, and snapping at his scrutiny. Great mouth
.
If he hosed her off, he could have some fun with her.
.
If he hosed her off, he could have some fun with her.
Just fun. Nothing deep. He’d given up on that idea long ago. When stopping the truck, he had been looking for one of two things: sex or death. And he wasn’t picky about which won the coin toss. The lion rumbled in his head, disturbed by his kamikaze attitude. In sharing the same skin, they were codependent.
She made an exasperated noise at his continued silence. Despite himself, Tru studied her slender neck, revealed by her short hair. Lovely. He’d always had a thing for that hint of feminine vulnerability. The lion rumbled in agreement.
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “You were saying?”
“Do you remember me?”
“You seem to think I should.” In truth, she held a hauntingly familiar air, but if he admitted he recognized her, then she’d probably expect him to help—save the orphans or the slaves, whatever her crusade.
Tru wasn’t the hero type. Not anymore. Some people could get up after profound failure, dust themselves off, and become better. Stronger. Fight harder. He wasn’t that guy.
“It doesn’t matter. We need to stop the bleeding, here—”
“Good luck with that.” He turned away.
He’d just wanted to screw with O’Malley, and then grab the prettiest girl for a little private party. He wasn’t in the business of hopeless causes.
Not since one very dark day when he’d lost everything. Only pain came of being selfless and optimistic.
The truck contained plenty of wounded, some bleeding more than others. They wouldn’t be any use to him, nor he to them. No solace left to offer.
Some stared at him in dazed terror. That was unsurprising. Few people got used to seeing a man crawl out of an animal’s skin. Most days, life as a lion was a hell of a lot simpler. But since he didn’t know any compatible shifters—he’d left those contacts behind long ago—he only prowled for sex in the shape of a man. These shell-shocked folks looked like a buffet of possibilities. Likely any one of the women would go with him in gratitude for his rescue. But first he had to show he meant them no harm.
He was an expert at getting what he wanted. These days, that skill was all he had left. It permitted him to forget, albeit briefly, that he’d ever been anything more.
Sliding past the bound captives, careful not to touch, Tru selected the guard who had died cleanest. He stripped the man’s clothes, shook them out, and dressed while the scruffy, familiar woman watched in astonishment. Her lovely mouth parted, as if she didn’t know what to say to him or how to say it.
Then she, too, went to work, but with a different end. A soft glow kindled about her as she bent to minister to those weeping in pain.
Like a fucking angel
. Her silence triggered the memory, more than her words could. Because the girl he’d known rarely talked to anyone.
Like a fucking angel
. Her silence triggered the memory, more than her words could. Because the girl he’d known rarely talked to anyone.
But she’d spoken to him.
“Penelope,” he said with a slow smile. “It’s been a long time. You look . . . good.” He rendered another visual inspection, judging her tender curves. Short blonde-streaked hair revealed a graceful sweep of neck.
“Pen,” she corrected in a tight voice, not even looking at him. Busy, elbow-deep in blood.
Fuckable
.
.
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