Taken

Chapter 13

The last flight of stairs up to her apartment was endless at about midnight. She was seriously dragging. On the other hand, she could sleep in tomorrow, since Margo had freaked out after the detective’s visit. She had insisted that Sophie take a Paid Day Off, for Health Reasons.

Sophie couldn’t even scrape up any thankfulness for that.

She reached the top of the stairs and stood for a moment, catching her breath. The hall smelled odd, musky, like it had this morning. But then, after the past two days, she was smelling weird things all over, like the dish of mummified M&M’s on Margo’s desk, or the smell of the seats in the classrooms—and classes had been an absolute waste, too. She couldn’t concentrate worth a damn today, had left her books at home, and had swallowed tears when the Psych professor announced a pop quiz. Which she was sure she’d bombed, to top everything off.

She had to spend two and a half minutes jabbing keys at her door, because her eyes kept blurring. Her nose was full, but she could still smell home, and that weird musk was driving her out of her head. She needed to take another long hot shower, and for the first time she wished she kept some alcohol in the house. A nip of something hard would go down really nice right about now.

She flicked the light switches for the hall and living room without thinking about it. The door closed, shutting the world out, and she let out a long sobbing sigh, locking the dead bolts. It absolutely reeked of musk in here, and the smell reminded her of being pressed against the wall, Zach’s face inches from hers, and his heat making it difficult to think straight.

A light breeze touched her hair, and she flinched, almost running straight into the door.

“Nice place,” he said in her ear. “A bit small, but okay. Smells like you.”

She hitched in enough air to scream, but his hand clamped over her mouth.

“None of that,” Zach said softly. His breath was warm, and his other arm came around her waist, pulled her back from the door. Her vinyl purse hit the linoleum with a thump. “I’m not going to hurt you. But we are going to have a talk.”

Oh, holy shit, how did he find me? Every muscle in her body had gone limp with shock. “Going to have a talk” was one of Mark’s favorite phrases. It usually meant I’m going to yell, and eventually you’re going to cry, and if you’re lucky maybe I’ll only slap you a few times. But if you’re not, by God, we’re going to have a talk and before it’s through Sophie is going to bleed.

Her brain utterly failed, vapor-locking between memory and the terrible present. He dragged her into the living room, such as it was, and stood for a moment in the middle of the carpet, as if looking for a place to sit. There wasn’t anything except one old ratty armchair from a downstairs apartment’s moving sale, and he pushed her down in it, peeling his hand away from her mouth with a meaningful glare.

All her breath had dried up. He was unshaven, dark stubble on his cheeks, his eyes hot with anger and his hair still falling stubbornly across his forehead. He was even wearing the same clothes she’d last seen him in, plus a denim jacket spotted with rain, and he still moved with the same lynxlike grace. The jacket made his shoulders look absurdly broad.

He stood in the middle of her almost-empty living room, framed by the white wall, the print Lucy had given her up over his head like a halo. He was so tall, and his anger filled up the room until she couldn’t breathe and started gasping, clutching at the chair arms and staring until her eyes threatened to bug out of her head completely.

“Christ.” He made a swift movement and crouched down, looking up at her. The anger swirled away, like static draining out of empty space.

It was odd, but as soon as he did it he seemed exponentially less scary, and when he reached out to touch her knee and she flinched back he actually stopped cold, his hand hanging in midair. “That answers that question, I guess. Breathe, honey. It goes easier if you take in some oxygen.”

His tone—soft, conciliatory, like Mark’s after a particularly bad beating, when he was in his repentant phase—surprised her. But what surprised her the most was his hand falling back down to his side, and he just cocked his head and regarded her, going completely, inhumanly still.

The gasps faded, little by little, and she stared at him. Air started to fill her lungs again. Panic attack, and a bad one. No wonder. She concentrated on breathing, pushing the air out, taking it in with small sipping sounds.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Quietly, his eyes holding hers. “I am not going to lay a hand on you unless it’s to keep you from doing something silly, and I won’t hurt you. Are we absolutely clear on that?”

Her wrists hurt, and her back, and the side of her head. The scab on her palm burned. He’d already hurt her. Still…Agree with him. Let him think you’re all right with this. She nodded, tentatively. The phone was in the kitchen. If she could get to it somehow—

“As a matter of fact,” he continued, “if your ex-husband—because I can tell from this apartment that he’s ex, you know—or anyone else tries to lay a hand on you, I’ll feed that hand back to them. In little bleeding pieces. Understand?”

Jesus. How long has he been in here? She managed another nod. The armchair creaked a little as she shifted, and she froze again. Her back gave a wrenching flare of pain, and her throat was so dry she doubted she could scream. All she could produce was a sort of croak.

“Now.” He settled farther into his crouch, became motionless again. “Why don’t we take it from the top. Why are there upir watching you?”

What? He means the vampires, right? She decided he had, indeed, said what she thought he’d said. “I don’t—” Her voice was surprisingly steady, even if she did have to stop and clear her throat. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you want with me, either.”

“Okay.” He nodded, once, sharply. “Let’s cover that. We need you. I’m sorry, but there wasn’t…I couldn’t explain before. You’re special, Sophie. You don’t know how special. Were things smelling strange to you today?”

How did he—? Her face must have betrayed her, because he nodded again. “And you’re tired. Triggering does that, eats up a lot of the body’s reserves. The biochemical changes are pretty intense.” He moved a little, as if his own muscles were sore. “You’re going to need at least a month or two to adjust.”

What? “What are you going to do to me?” she whispered.

Amazingly, that made him smile. All the anger fled from his face, and his eyes actually lit up. It made him even more dangerously handsome, the stubble roughing up his cheeks and his mouth softening just a bit. “Well, first of all, I thought I’d feed you. You’re probably hungry, aren’t you?”

He sounded actually cajoling, and her heart gave an amazing thumping leap inside her chest. She was starving; she hadn’t choked down more than toast and that had gone down the tubes this morning. “I—”

His head came up, tilting as if to catch a sound. It was a quick inquiring movement, like a cat’s, and she flinched again. She couldn’t help herself.

“Shit.” The anger came back, settled over his face like an old friend, and chased the handsomeness away. “It never rains but it pours. Look, Sophie, can you trust me?”

Trust you? Are you fucking insane? You kidnapped me, broke into my house, and you’re…you’re…Words failed her. She just stared at him.

“Guess not.” He slowly rose, and she noticed his boots were dusty and crushing the carpet. He made another one of those quick, inquiring moves, and swore under his breath again. “I hate to tell you this, honey, but there’s upir in your building. There’s no reason for them to be here unless they’re after you. I’m going to ask you again, why the hell are they following you?”

“I don’t know.” How amazing. I actually sound irritated. Go figure. Her brain began to work again. “How can you tell?”

“I can smell them.” He turned in a tight circle, his gaze roving over every surface of the room and coming to rest on her again. “I wonder why they’re so interested in you. Huh.”

“Please don’t hurt me.” How many times am I going to have to say that in my life? she wondered, and not for the first time.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He took two quick steps and held out his hand, palm cupped. “But we’re going to have to get out of here.”

She shook her head. Loose curls fell in her face. “I’m not going anywhere.” She clutched at the chair arms like a drowning woman. “You can’t kidnap me again.”

“I’m not going to kidnap you, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you smell them?”

“All I can smell is whatever cologne you’re wearing. Why don’t you go find someone else to harass?” She couldn’t believe the words had come out of her mouth.

It sounded more like something Lucy would say.

He gave her a smile too tight and thin to be an expression of good humor. “What if I like harassing you, sweetheart? You get all cute when you’re mad.”

What the hell? She stared at him. “You’re insane.”

“Nope.” He moved his hand a little, urging her to take it. “How did you vanish the other night, by the way? We thought the upir had taken you. Were about to tear down the whole town looking for you.”

What the hell for? She lifted her chin and scowled stubbornly at him. If he wanted an answer he was going to have to beat it out of her.

And if there was one thing Sophie Wilson knew, it was how to take a punch and keep a secret.

His hand stayed where it was, hanging out in the air like it had nothing better to do. “Come on.” He didn’t look impatient or upset, just thoughtful and tense. “We need to get out of here. I smell bloodsuckers all over this building. I’d really prefer it if you came willingly.”

“Go. To. Hell.” She settled herself farther back in the chair, which squeaked again, and braced herself for an explosion.

Someone knocked sharply on her front door. Three hard, quick raps.

Sophie swallowed hard. What now?

“Huh.” Zach spun in a tight half circle. “Male. Expecting a gentleman caller, sweets?”

Her heart gave a sickening thump, began pounding.

God. It’s Mark. He’s found me. “Nobody knows where I live.” Except you, apparently. And now him. He’s going to hit the roof if he sees a man in here. It was the final straw.

And Zach was striding toward the door as Sophie, frozen, held on to the arms of the old chair with tense, aching fingers. He didn’t pause, just swept her purse aside with his foot, tucking it out of sight over the kitchen threshold, flipped the dead bolts as if he lived here, and yanked the door open. “Hello?”

Sophie squeezed her eyes shut so hard fireworks slid behind her lids. Her breathing came in quick, shallow gasps, and her entire body was locked in a cube of ice. She could actually feel the wet cold against her skin, and a thin trace of sweat slid down the shallow channel of her spine.

The darkness behind her lids turned gray for a moment, as if a diaphanous scarf had wrapped itself over her head. A strange sense of comfort settled over her, warring with the lunacy she was trapped in, this nightmare that didn’t want to end.

“Is Miss Wilson home?” It was a half-familiar voice. Not Mark’s. Her breath whooshed out, gasped back in, and held itself again.

“May I ask who you are?” Zach asked, amiably enough. It was absolute insanity, and it wasn’t about to end anytime soon.

She wondered if she was crazy. It would certainly explain a lot.

“Detective Andrews, CPD. I spoke to Miss Wilson this afternoon, about her friend Lucy Cavanaugh.”

“She’s really broken up, sir.” How was it possible for a werewolf who kidnapped her and dragged her hundreds of miles away, not to mention broke into her house, to sound so calm?

“I know. But I had a couple questions. You see, witnesses describe someone matching Miss Wilson’s description entering the Paintbox with Miss Cavanaugh. You wouldn’t happen to—”

“That would be what, Friday night?” Zach still sounded calm, and he paused. The detective must have nodded. “It couldn’t have been Sophie. She was with me. We were at home.”

“Here, in this apartment?” The detective sounded mildly surprised. “Miss Wilson didn’t mention you this afternoon, Mr….?”

“Gabe. Gabe Sellers.”

A faint, hopeless sound escaped Sophie’s throat. My God, is he even lying about his name? There was the sound of cloth moving as men shifted weight, and her eyes flew open.

Zach filled up the door, towering over the pudgy little detective. She couldn’t even see the man out in the hall. And that weird grayness didn’t go away. It looked like the cloudy haze on the conference table earlier that day, swirling hypnotically.

She wondered if she was going into shock.

“Mr. Sellers.” A floorboard creaked sharply under the detective’s feet. “She didn’t mention you. Can I come in?”

“Well, her ex-husband’s kind of looking for reasons to make her life miserable. I guess she doesn’t want me to be one of them.” Zach leaned on the doorjamb. “And Sophie’s crying her eyes out about Lucy. I don’t think now’s a good time.”

“So, you’re involved with Mrs. Harris?”

“It’s Ms. Wilson.” Zach’s tone had turned chill. “And I’m not sure it’s any of your business, Sir. Sophie was with me all weekend. Does that answer your question?”

“Where did you two spend the weekend, Mr. Sowers?” The detective’s tone matched Zach’s now, and Sophie let out another small hitching sound. Her nose was full, and tears had welled up. Two scorch-hot drops of water trickled down her cheeks. Say something, you idiot. Yell. Scream. You wanted to call the police, there’s one standing right there in the door! Do something!

But if she did something, the inevitable questions would start—questions she didn’t have good answers for. Or even believable, rational answers. Where exactly were you Friday night? If you were with Lucy, why didn’t you report anything? Why did you lie? You say this guy kidnapped you? Why? Who is this guy, anyway?

Zach leaned against the doorjamb, still blocking any view of the hall. The grayness resolved into streaks of fluttering transparency, easing around him. “It’s Sellers. I thought you guys were good with names. As for where we spent the weekend, that’s private. If you know what I mean. Now, if you don’t have any other prying personal questions, I’ve got a crying girlfriend I need to feed and calm down. Have a nice night, Anderson.”

“It’s Andrews, Mr. Sellers. I’d like to speak to Miss Wilson, please.”

“I don’t think she’s in any condition to talk to someone who can’t even get her name straight.” Zach half turned his head. “Sophie?” he called, as if she was in the bathroom. “Some cop’s here. You want to talk to him?”

Oh, Jesus. Dear God. She made her arms work, pushed herself up out of the chair. It gave a protesting groan.

The gray things wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she blinked.

She teetered, on old-woman legs, to the hall. Andrews was making notations in his steno pad again. Zach’s body language didn’t change. Her knees almost gave out as she tried to figure out a way past him. If she could reach the hall she could run away from both of them, and everything else, as well.

Just keep running. Only she didn’t have anywhere to go. The last time she’d run, she’d had a plan—a desperate one, but a plan nonetheless, and a friend to help carry it out.

Oh, Lucy. Her eyes brimmed with hot salt water.

Zach put out a hand as soon as she was within reaching distance, slid it over her shoulders, and pulled her into his side just like a protective boyfriend. “This the guy who told you about Lucy?” He tucked his chin to look down at her, and Sophie didn’t flinch only through sheer willpower. He was very warm, a flood of heat closing around her. And that musk smell, which was beginning to be curiously comforting. The gray things pressed closer, floating as if the air was water.

She didn’t trust her voice. She nodded. A horrible idea bolted through her head—she’d seen what Zach could do, the way his shape changed into something lean and wickedly clawed, covered in dark pelt.

What if the tubby little brown-eyed detective, who was still in the rumpled tan mackintosh, his tie a little askew, made Zach angry?

Her knees almost gave out. Which pitched her directly into Zach’s side, and his arm tightened. Her heart crawled into her throat, and fresh hot tears slid down her cheeks. What had she done to deserve this? She’d only wanted to go out and have some fun, for God’s sake.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” Andrews did look sorry, his muddy eyes as sad as they had been earlier. “You were with your fella here all weekend?”

Well, technically that’s true. And he’s a werewolf. And pigs will fly. She managed another nod, and Zach’s arm tightened again. Maybe he even meant it to be comforting, but it felt like a warning.

Still, that musk smell was soothing. Something about it made her feel a little steadier. How was that for completely, totally insane?

“She usually comes to my place,” Zach supplied. “But this weekend she wasn’t feeling well, and I brought her takeout and tried to keep her in bed.”

And Christ on a crutch, but his voice dropped, and he made that sentence sound…well, positively indecent. Her legs all but failed her, and now Zach was holding her up without any apparent effort. As if she needed a reminder of how freakishly, inhumanly strong he was.

“Where would your place be, Mr. Sellers?” The detective’s eyes were suspiciously sharp behind their muddiness, and Sophie began to feel faint. Her head was full of rushing noise, and she had the urge to simply sink into the floor. If a huge cavern had opened up right then and there, she would have dropped in with only a grateful murmur.

“About four blocks away. Why?” He actually sounded innocent. It was hard to imagine him growling like a huge, very angry dog. Or holding her up against the wall, or pinning her to a bed.

But then, she knew all about men who could sound innocent when questioned, didn’t she?

“Just curious.” The detective examined Sophie for a long moment, and his face softened. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. You look worn out. Hope your fella here takes good care of you.”

“I intend to.” Zach loomed over both of them, suddenly seeming taller, and Sophie blinked. The lights in the hall were doing funny things, shadows weaving between them like gauze scarves. But that could have been the water in her eyes. Or the panic attack still reverberating in her nerves. Or— “Anything else we can help you with, Detective?”

“Not at the moment.” Andrews was still watching Sophie’s face.

Her cheek throbbed. Did she look like a beaten woman? She’d had plenty of practice. I must look guilty. Oh, Lucy, I’m so sorry. It should have been me.

A long, heart-stopping moment later, the detective tipped Zach a curious little salute and nodded at her. “Good night, then.”

“Good night,” she said faintly, and Zach pulled her back, sweeping the door shut as Andrews turned away. He locked both dead bolts, put the chain on, and took another two steps back, dragging her with him as if she weighed nothing. Paused, his head cocked again, as the heavy man’s footsteps retreated down the hall.

“They’ll probably let him pass,” he murmured, and made a quick movement, letting go of her shoulders as he bent to pick up her purse. Sophie teetered, half fell against the wall, and let out a long breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. “Not worth their time to kill a cop. But we’ve got to get out of here.” His eyes swept down her body, a curiously impersonal glance, and Sophie braced her shoulder against the wall even harder. “Good work, by the way. The dewy-eyed innocent thing looks real nice on you.”

“I thought you were…” Going to kill him. Going to kill me. Going to do something awful.

He thrust her purse into her hands. “I figured he was fishing for your alibi, sweets. He suspects something, he just doesn’t know what. As long as you stick with that story—that you were with me and we were here—he can’t do anything. Not like it matters—we have to get out.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Instead of ringing and declarative, the words came out thin and tired. Her head swam. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Pass out later.” He grabbed her arm and reached for the door again. “Right now we need to move.”

The ceiling fixture in the hall began to dim, and the bulb in the living room began to make a strange fizzling sound.