Choices (3 page)

“I will keep her safe, Anthony.” The lyrical accent of North England wrapped the voice of the man behind her. The accent of Dad’s home. Grief stabbed her.

“I’m not leaving you.” She leaned in, tears thickening her voice. They made her leave her parents, bleeding and broken— “I won’t leave you alone.”

“For me, beautiful. I need you to go now—” A harsh cough tore through him. Maura caught the back of his head, eased him to the floor as he fought for breath. “I need to know you’re safe.”

He swallowed, closed his eyes. Maura’s heart lurched.

“Stay with me, Anthony.” She looked over her shoulder—and met a pair of vivid, angry blue eyes. “Help him. Please.”

“I am sorry, child.” One strong arm circled her waist and lifted Maura off the floor.

“No—I’m not leaving him like this—”

“There is no more time.” He set her on her feet and spun her around. “And you have no choice.” He caught her arm and hauled her through the silent crowd. She let out a cry when her leg twisted under her. With a curse he swept her up, carried her to one of the flared pillars. “Stay here.”

She clutched the glass smooth stone, watched him as he returned to Anthony, kneeling beside him. He lowered his head, dark blonde hair sweeping forward to cover his face, but she knew, by the set of his shoulders she knew. Anthony was dead.

Tears filed her eyes, slipped down her face. For the first time since burying her parents three years ago, she cried. She felt. And it hurt like hell.

Through her tears she saw an army of black figures marching toward them, led by a stocky man whose presence parted the crowd. Even from this distance Maura could see the distaste on his round, baby smooth features. Her reluctant savior stood, hands clasped behind him.

The stocky man’s gaze swept the floor as he approached, found Anthony and nodded in obvious satisfaction. “He’s dead?”

“Yes, Darwin.”

Her captor’s quiet voice revealed nothing, but his fingers curled into a fist. Anger snapped across Darwin’s face.

“Watch your mouth, Wolf—I outrank you now.”

“I will endeavor to keep the memory intact. Captain.”

The younger man’s face blanked, then his eyes narrowed in comprehension. He smoothed both hands over his black, slicked-back hair, like a gesture of self-comfort.

“Anything on their leader Daniel?”

“Nothing yet. Captain.”

“Clean up this mess,
Lieutenant
. And find that outworlder. I want to know what the bastard said to her.”

Darwin smoothed his hair again and sauntered to the cluster of uniforms directing traffic around the disruption. The murder scene.

Moving back to Anthony, Wolf knelt beside him, his hand closing over Anthony’s shoulder. One of the uniforms approached, obviously hesitant, and spoke to Wolf. After a moment he nodded, staying with Anthony while they transported him to what looked like a long, narrow garbage can.

From her angle Maura could see the line of Wolf’s jaw, the muscles clenched so tight it hurt to witness. Without a word he watched the efficient, impersonal erasure of a man’s life.

She had to get out of here, before she no longer had the choice.

Testing her leg, she let out her breath when it didn’t buckle under her in protest. After a last glance behind her she moved forward, wiping at the tears on her face. She tried her best to blend in with the people shuffling through the exit, and followed them out to the city. First sight of it stopped her in her tracks.

She stood facing what had been Fisherman’s Wharf. The landscape had changed so drastically she only recognized it because of the presence of the Bay, stretching off to her right. Tall, drab stone buildings replaced the hodgepodge she remembered. The only color she could find was in the painfully neat hedge running the length of each building, and the water in the Bay. Scores of people filled the streets, which would make losing herself easier than she anticipated.

She limped across Jefferson, turned on to Leavenworth—and to her relief, recognized the building just down the street. The Cannery, with its warm brick and lush trees still intact. She could cut through the courtyard and make her way to Chinatown—or whatever stood where Chinatown once existed. The more distance she put between herself and that man, the safer she would feel.

It didn’t take long for her to attract attention. Her sapphire blouse and rich black skirt, the blood staining her face, marked her as different—and here, different was obviously not acceptable.

Maura hugged the hedge marching along the buildings, clutching her bag as she tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She halted when someone stepped in her path. Swallowing, her leg too unstable for her to run, she lifted her head.

The woman in front of her wore the same drabbed-to-almost-grey clothes. The tears running down her face drove straight into Maura’s heart. When she held out her hand Maura stumbled backward.

“Please,” the woman whispered. “I only want to—”

A startled cry spun Maura toward the street. Lieutenant Wolf stalked through the crowd, gaze on her, his fury palpable.

She pushed past the woman, ignored her screaming leg and limped down the street and into The Cannery. Stepping inside, she realized her mistake too late.

The courtyard had been stripped, leaving an open space that was deserted. Except for her. She kept moving, her dread building as she noticed every exit had been blocked off, bricked up.

She used the storefronts as a support—easy to do, since they were closed up, no signage, no sign of life. Relief nearly buckled her legs when she saw one open exit. At the far end of the courtyard.

Reaching the narrow corridor, she gripped the corner of the building, breath tearing through her lungs. She lurched around the corner—and let out a cry when fingers shackled her wrist and jerked her backward.

Wolf trapped her against the brick, his hand moving up to circle her throat. Any thought of struggling died as he leaned in, those vivid blue eyes furious.

“Going somewhere?” His low, accented voice scared her far more than if he’d shouted at her.

“I—”

“Did you think you would survive out here on your own, outworlder?” He slid his hand down her left arm and yanked her off the wall. “I made a promise, and whether I want to or not, I intend to keep you safe until I can send you back where you belong.”

She tried to swallow the scream when he dragged her after him down the corridor. It escaped as her leg finally gave up on her.

With a curse Wolf caught her before she hit the ground.

“Where.”

“My—leg.” She recoiled when he touched it. “God―”

“You can pray to your God that my captain did not see you in the terminal. He’ll be of no other use to you here.” Maura stared up at him, stung by the bitterness in his voice. “Do you have a place?”

“Not here.” She swallowed, grief lodged in her throat. Not anywhere.

Wolf picked her up, his grip gentler than she expected.

“Then we will find you a place.” His accent washed over her, soothing, familiar. It left her heart aching. “And you will tell me who you really are.”

* * *

T
he place turned out to be Wolf’s quarters. Stark and bare as everything else she had seen here, it drove home the fact that she was in a different world. And from what she’d witnessed so far, a dangerous one.

He settled her on the sofa, his hands gentle with her injured leg. His height finally registered as he stood over her, a disheveled, earthbound god, his black uniform vibrant against the colorless living room. He brushed one hand through shoulder length hair. The color reminded her of the cinnamon-streaked alabaster bookends Dad had bought in Mexico—

She choked off the thought.

God—when do the memories stop hurting?

“Maura.” His quiet, accented voice filtered through her grief, weighted it. Fighting past it, she met his eyes. No anger this time, only badly concealed exhaustion. He eased the bag off her shoulder and knelt in front of her. “Let me see that leg.”

His fingers brushed against one of the cuts as he started to unknot the bandage. She jerked away from him, away from the burn of contact, skidding off the slick cushion. In one swift, graceful move he caught her around the waist and resettled her. Closing her eyes, she tried not to throw up as pain bounced around her skull. “Can you sit on your own?”

“Yes.”

With aching symmetry, every muscle in her body cramped simultaneously, then let go. She slumped against the hard, curved back of the sofa as warm air caressed her leg. Wolf cursed, long and low, and Maura found herself admiring the sheer variety.

“Who tended this?”

“No one you would know.”

“He comes within reach and I will make myself known.”

She opened her eyes, studied him as he bent over her leg. This man, with his gentle hands, was worlds away from the cold, furious cop who trapped her against a wall and threatened—

“Ouch—what are you doing?”

Wolf looked up at her, bloody gauze in one hand. “Fixing this mess.”

“Could you fix it without killing me in the process?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I will endeavor to keep you intact.”

His flippant answer surprised a smile out of her. “See that you do.”

The twitch deepened. “As you will, child.”

She watched him carefully unwrap her leg, focused on his hands to keep from shrieking every time he peeled bandage off skin. Four jagged white scars striped his fingers and the back of his right hand, disappearing under the cuff of his uniform. As if something—or someone—had clawed him in desperation.

His hands moved out of sight, and she finally saw her leg. Cringing, she understood why every move hurt like hell. The sculpture had left its mark—a crosshatch of shallow but ugly gashes marching down the length of her thigh and halfway down her calf, highlighted by some really appalling bruises.

In his haste, Dr. Lang treated only the wounds above her knee. Her already low opinion of him dropped even further.

Wolf pulled a small kit off his belt, produced a silver canister. “This is liquid mend. Are you allergic?”

“I’ve never heard of it. Will that tell you?”

One eyebrow cocked. Maura thought she detected amusement in the depths of his vivid eyes.

“This will.” He sprayed a fine mist on her left thigh. “Tell me immediately if there is any sensation.”

“It feels cold. Is that normal?”

“Yes.” The next test was on her injured leg. “Anything?”

“No—nothing.”

“I want you to hold still for me.”

She nodded, braced herself.

Slowly, with the care of a healer, he sprayed every inch of her leg, the ugly gouge Dr. Lang’s needle left across her right hand, the bruises on her left thigh. He paused over her shoulder with a few choice words, then sprayed it as well—after an agonizing examination to make sure the collarbone wasn’t fractured.

Though she had always been modest, even with her parents, this stranger’s attention didn’t feel invasive. Instead, for a few short minutes, his touch wrapped her in the illusion of safety.

He moved up to her face, cleaned the blood that caked her skin and matted her hair, cursing under his breath as he probed the wound. Maura clamped her jaw on the scream in her throat.

Finished at last, he sprayed a cooling layer of mend along her temple. He bound her hand, then moved to her right leg, wrapping it from ankle to hip with the same thin, soft bandage.

“The mend will accelerate the healing.” His low voice was like a balm. Like Dad’s—warm, patient, quiet. Hearing that accent again tore at her. She missed him—missed them both, so much. Wolf pulled her back to the moment. “Can you walk on your own?”

She nodded, this time with much less backlash. The liquid mend had begun its healing the moment he applied it.

“There is a robe in the bedroom. I will have your clothing seen to.” He raised his hand. “You can leave your bag with me.”

Needing to trust, wanting to believe she could trust him, Maura handed her bag over. He let her go, his gaze following her, almost physical, as she made her way toward the door.

She found the white robe hanging on a wall peg, clenched her teeth to keep from moaning as she struggled out of her sweat-stiff, bloody clothes. The coarse robe felt like velvet in comparison.

When she returned to the living room the contents of her bag were scattered across the brushed steel coffee table. “What are you—”

“Sit down, Maura.” Anger chilled his quiet voice.

She obeyed, twisted her fingers into the folds of the robe to keep them from shaking. The grey sofa was even more uncomfortable this time, the inflexible cushions digging into her bruises. She forced herself to stillness when he approached her.

He dropped an object in her lap. Her driver’s license. She expected him to question that. “This is not the ID of an outworlder. And you need to explain how an illegal artifact is in your possession.” He skipped over the fact that her photo was on that ID. Then he added two items she didn’t expect—her battered notebook and pen. “If someone else caught you with this, your life would be forfeit.”

“What?”

“Why do you think Anthony was hunted, killed?”

Hunted—God, no—

“I don’t—”

“He violated the law by breathing.”

She flinched away from the anger in his voice, tried to stand. Wolf grabbed her left arm, pushed her against the cushion, let go before she could panic. He braced his hands on either side of her and leaned in, only the space of a breath between them.

“Why do you think he was killed, Maura.”

Grief whipped through the anger. Meeting the vivid eyes, she watched that grief coil in their depths, not quite hidden behind shadow and blame.

“He was your friend.”

“Yes.” Anguish scorched the single word.

She studied his time-scored face. Responsibility marked it, etched lines into his forehead, around his eyes. Reaching up, she brushed her fingers over the scar, old and pale, that bracketed the left side of his mouth.

He jerked away, put the length of the room between them. Maura lowered her head, stung by his reaction, and watched her fingers twine themselves into a flesh and bone knot.