Lilith Saintcrow - Taken

The mutating rectangle of streetlamp light blinked and fuzzed. The sense of someone breathing outside her door leached away, the hall floor squeaking slightly as he moved. There were other quick little sounds, too, as if others had gotten up.

What’s going on? She rolled over again, irritated, and rested her head on her arm again. God, can’t I just sleep? Please?

The room darkened. The wind picked up outside, and a bitter taste invaded her tongue. Sophie sighed. Maybe it was indigestion.

But it didn’t taste like indigestion. It tasted like dirt. Something dangerous, ugly, and covered with grimy slime.

She pushed herself up on her hands, her left palm sending a bolt of red pain up her arm. Ow. I hope that’s not getting infected, that would just cap the whole damn—

Crash!

The window exploded inward, glass raining down. Sophie cried out, her arms jerking up to protect her head. There was a staticky half-breath sense of a thunderstorm building, the hair-lifting moment before the first lightning strike cracks the night like an egg.

They poured into the room, a tide of half-seen, jerky shapes. There wasn’t even time to scream before they were on her, cold hands gripping like iron vises, their eyes dripping bleeding hellfire. They breathed on her, a tidal wave of rank foulness. The blankets tangled around her like a shroud before she thrashed, striking out with hands and feet, realizing she was, after all, screaming.

The last thing she heard were crashing howls and Zach yelling her name before darkness closed over her head.

She lay on her side. It was utterly black in here, and it felt like a very, very small space. Hardness under her, it felt cold as concrete. Something was dripping, and there was an odd cacophony—screeching, clicking, a sound like thick dark meat pulled from a recalcitrant bone.

“That’s just fine,” a woman said, and she recognized the voice just as she realized she was tied up, thick coils of rope cocooning her body. “We’ll make an example.”

Oh, God.

“She’s my sacrifice,” Mark said petulantly. He actually lisped over the sibilants, and Sophie had a sudden, horrible vision of malformed teeth, canines long and sharp, curving in and affecting the way the tongue moved.

It was so dark . She couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed; she only knew that she could see the ghostly faces. They pressed close, and the cricket sound of their voices as their lips moved had a hard time getting through the squealing and ripping.

“She’ll suffer later. We’re going to send a little message to those animals. That’s enough, children.” Delia Armitage sounded normal, at least. Except for the cruel glee in her voice, as if she was leaning over a table at a charity dinner, gossiping. Sophie had heard that particular tone many times, usually just before Delia fixed her with a gaze dark and cold as leftover coffee. “Be mannerly, now.”

Sophie strained to see. Her entire body ached, and it smelled so horrible she thought she was about to faint again. The crunching, slurping noises tapered away, and in the pregnant silence afterward the reedy cricket sounds became clearer. They almost, almost became real words. The faces pressed close, some of them contorted with worry. Others looked sad, and a few of them had sharp teeth, looking like the lean graceful forms Zach and his family took.

Zach . Had they hurt him?

Another question rose, foggy at first through the various noises competing for her attention. Why didn’t they kill me? I thought that was what they wanted, right?

She was already dead as far as the newspapers were concerned. Logic dictated that Mark had something bad in store for her. Really bad, not just a shot to the kidneys or a bloody nose, or the sudden blow to her stomach that made her lose all her air, or—

Did they kill Zach?

The faces crowded around. They whispered to each other, the cricket sounds growing louder.

No, it was the other sounds that were growing fainter. “Come along, children. You too, Harris.”

“What if she’s awake?” Mark, petulant again. And with the edge of bafflement that meant he hadn’t gotten something he wanted. The edge that used to make her mouth dry and her heart pound.

He sounded so petty. So spoiled. Had he always sounded that way?

“Leave the little mouse in the dark, we’ll deal with her soon enough.” Delia Armitage laughed, a giggling little titter like razors drawn through broken glass. There was one final wet sound, a hungry little moan, and Sophie had a sudden, vivid mental image of Delia, her eyes bright with liquid crimson, pulling Mark’s blond head down, her tongue sliding snakelike into his mouth, and the heavy smacking of a deep, violent kiss echoing in a small space. It was dark, and a single dim bulb hung from a cord over the two. The walls were splashed with black liquid, and the light flickered out as Sophie tried to shake her head.

The unwelcome vision vanished.

Her head dropped, her temple hitting the concrete floor as if she’d been punched, and she saw stars threading through the wall of foggy faces pressing close, closer, closer to her.

Silence, now, except for the cricket song. It almost made words.

Hot tears filled Sophie’s eyes. Oh, God. All I wanted was a night out. She wriggled a little bit, testing the ropes. Nothing. No give.

As if she’d know how to wriggle out of this, anyway.

The ghosts—spirits, majir, whatever they were—drew closer. They brushed her with spectral fingers, their voices the soft rushing of wind and water now. Each touch was insubstantial as smoke, and yet left a strange sort of calm in its wake. They ruffled her hair, brushed her wet cheeks, drew the pain out of her fingers and soothed the burning in her legs. One of them drifted closer—a girl’s face, wide shadowy eyes full of terrible knowledge, her small mouth moving soundlessly.

I’m going crazy . Sophie lay still, petrified, and wished the darkness would take her again.

He put his fist through the bar’s heavy wood surface, disregarding the splinters and the way the skin over his knuckles broke and briefly bled. The lacerations closed almost instantly, but the jolt of pain up his arm was worth it for the clarity it brought in its wake.

Control, Zach. You’re not a savage.

The short, sharp movement brought all motion in Cullen’s bar to a halt. The assembled Tribe—most of them had been there when he arrived, and more were showing up all the time—turned still and silent, watching him. Julia clamped a sodden, bright-red towel to her arm. Brun slumped against her, dark rings under his eyes and the acrid tang of worry hanging on him. The smell of blood added a teasing note to the stew of anger riding the air.

“Listen,” Zach said, quietly and reasonably, in the silence that followed. “I did not come here to sit and listen to you idiots whinge and moan. They’ve taken our shaman. And you’re sitting here wondering what the fuck to do? ”

Cullen sighed, folded his arms. The bar was full of snarling, a river of bloodlust running right under the surface of the air, and most of it was coming from Zach. Eric shifted restlessly, and one of the Bear Tribe—Cullen’s alpha, a female with the wide shoulders and studied, careful movements of their kind—stared unblinkingly at him.

“They’ll crucion her for sure,” one of the Felinii said softly.

“Crucion?” Eric started forward, but Zach put his arm out to stop him. Getting to the bar could have been hazardous; but the upir had vanished.