Karen Whiddon - Lone Wolf

He patted his hunting-vest pocket, making sure his bottle of rotgut was still there. It was. Though he would have welcomed company, specifically Marika’s, without her this salute was better made alone. When he’d finished, then and only then, he could go inside and accept comfort from the woman who’d loved them both like her own.

Trudging up the slight rise, he stared out over the moonlit land that seemed to go on forever, unbroken except for sagebrush and cactus. In the distance, the mesa rose, dark purple against the night sky, a tribute to ancient gods from a long-forgotten past.

He’d long ago tried to make his peace with them, settling finally for an uneasy compromise.

Each step brought him closer to hell.

Here. He slowed as he reached the spot. The marker, a stylized ankh carved in granite, had been well-tended, and someone had placed a foil-wrapped planter of tulips in front. Addie.

Beck smiled slightly, making a mental note to thank her later.

He dropped to his knees on the soft grass and pulled out his bottle, barely wetting his lips before he spoke. “Hey, Jules,” he said softly. “Me again.”

The answering silence felt full of condemnation.

This time, he took a swig in earnest, the pungent whiskey burning down his throat. When he’d finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I haven’t found your killer, not yet. But I promise you I won’t give up.”

No answer, of course. There never was.

Beyond him, in the undulating land toward the mesa, he heard the muted sounds of nature in the night, behind him, human noises of revelry enhanced by alcohol and music.

With a sigh, he took one more slug of the whiskey. He thought of all the things he’d like to say to his sister, of everything that had happened in the past year, without her. He missed Jules, missed her badly, and, though he knew this would never bring her back, he raised the whiskey bottle to begin his third and final toast.

Something or someone slammed into him from behind, knocking the bottle out of his hand and sending whiskey flying.

Beck twisted, ready to fight. He cursed the stupidity that had made him let his guard down, cursed, too, the fact that he couldn’t even mourn without some bozo wanting to prove his manhood.

More than one. There were three of them, swaying slightly from drink, felt hats pulled low to keep the moonlight from revealing their faces. Two humans and a shifter, wearing his long hair in a thick braid down his back.

Beck got in one good left hook, connecting with a satisfying crunch. He felt confident he broke that guy’s jaw, before one of the others picked up his whiskey bottle and smashed him hard over the back of the head.

In the dark place where they’d confined her, Marika Tarus bit back her rage and bided her time. Eventually, her captors would grow careless. Someone would open the cement sarcophagus to check on her and then, she’d attack. She’d channel all her anger and pain into building her strength.

The rough cement no longer felt cold or hard. She allowed herself no sensations, nothing but the all-consuming fury that heated her from within. She was patient—one didn’t live a few hundred years without learning that trait—and she could wait until she was given the opportunity to escape. When they did give her that chance, she’d flee. But first, she’d extract her vengeance.

All vampires knew not to mess with a Vampire Huntress. Now these stupid humans would know, too.

She moved, the tiny effort bringing a slash of pain. They’d broken her legs and shattered her kneecaps, but her body had already mostly healed. Vampires healed quickly. She’d been able to move her legs without pain after two days and, though something still felt wrong, knew she’d be able to walk once she got to her feet.

If she got to her feet. How long were they going to keep her locked up in total darkness? And for what reason? No matter what they did to her, she’d never tell them what they wanted to know.

Once she’d refused to answer their questions, they’d beaten and tortured her, then put her into her current prison. It had taken all three of them to lift the lid and slide the massive stone over her. This was the only thing heavy enough to contain her vampiric strength. Otherwise, she’d have escaped long ago.

They’d given her injections, too—some kind of sedative. At first, the drug had knocked her for a loop, but the drowsy fog had worn off after a few hours.

The fools believed they were winning. Keeping her here, they believed if she were deprived of nourishment—blood—long enough, she’d grow weak. She’d heard them discussing how long it could be before she wasted away. Their theory was eight weeks, tops. She’d smiled grimly in the absolute darkness. They had no idea how many months a vampire of her age could go without drinking. One more advantage she’d have, were they ever foolish enough to release her.

For now, she lay in her silent prison and waited.

Confinement in the small, airless space would have made her feel claustrophobic if she’d been human. Since she was quite used to squeezing into tiny places, the prison tomb didn’t bother her. Yet. No doubt they were hoping her enforced solitude would eventually drive her mad.

They didn’t know, she thought, grinning savagely to herself, she’d gone mad three years ago to the day. Knowing her best friend had died in her place, because of her sins, had made her that way.

Now, she had one thing to live for. Her daughter. She’d never betray Dani, no matter what they did to her.

Beck came to trussed up like a turkey, being transported in the back of a pickup truck. With each bounce and dip of the tires, his body slammed against the metal bed. The haze of pain made him grimace, though his first thought was of Addie. She’d worry when he didn’t show up for their annual remembrance.

Finally, they arrived somewhere, and the truck stopped. All three of his captors climbed in the truck bed then, standing around him as though debating their next move.

“Where is she?” One of them—the one who was also a shifter—kicked him, hard. “Tell us, or we’ll kill you both.”

He grunted, glaring up at them. Blood ran in a slow trickle from a cut on his head. He itched to wipe it away, but with his hands tied, he couldn’t.

She? “Who?” he managed to croak.

Instead of answering, his captor slapped him, hard enough to send his head ricocheting against the metal side.

Stars exploded and his vision blurred. While he gasped for breath, fighting against the pain, they waited, watching. One of them grinned like a fool. Beck wanted to smash that one’s face in.

And he still had no idea what they wanted.

Damn. The world had gone insane. When the two other men lifted him and held him, one on each arm, Beck stared blankly at his attacker, wishing he could clear his head enough to think and plan. And change.

Instead, he stalled again, with truth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Another punch, this time to the gut. Beck doubled over, retching.

“Where is she?” Same question, same intonation.

Tell us what we want to know, or we’ll torture you until you can take no more.

“Tell us. Where is she?”

“Who?” Beck cried out. “Come on, buddy. Give me a break. You have the wrong man.”

The tall, wiry shifter stepped back, adjusting his hat. He wore his inky black hair in a long, braided rope down his back. Flexing his fist, he glared at Beck before addressing the others. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“No, he’s not.” The one with the battered hat leaned closer, giving Beck a whiff of sour breath and cigarette smoke. “Let me make this clear. We’ve got the woman. Now, we want the kid. Either you tell us where she is, or the woman dies.”