Hunted (Riley Cray) (22 page)

A backhanded blow to my face erased my need to pretend unconsciousness. After a few moments the dancing motes of darkness disappeared from the edges of my vision, and when I finally pinned Johnson with a glare there was no need my fake the burning rage.

“Asshole,” I snarled, spitting fresh blood at him. I bared my teeth in a bloody grin when he recoiled from the red spray that splattered across the front of his shirt.

“You fucking bitch. You’re going to pay for that.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re all talk,” I replied, with a yawn.

My yawn came to gasping halt as the wickedly sharp edge of the silver blade came into view, gleaming in the corner of my eye. The sight of it made my skin crawl with the need to get away, and for the first time I let Johnson see just how afraid I was as I thrashed in the chair, straining uselessly against the plastic ties holding me in place.

Foiled by zip ties, how embarrassing. Maybe they’ll put that on my tombstone – ‘Here lies Riley Cray. She would have survived if it weren’t for those damn zip ties.’

A piercing wail of agony exploded out of my throat as he pressed the flat of the blade to the bare flesh of my right wrist. My skin instantly began to welt and throb beneath the silver. I knew that continued exposure would lead to blistering, burns and scarring, but in that moment I couldn’t think of anything beyond the pain of the silver blade pressed to my skin.

The flood of relief that tore through me when he took the knife away was dizzying and left me drawing in ragged breaths. Looking down at my hand where it gripped the arm of the chair I saw several inches in either direction of my wrist covered in dark red streaks. It took longer than I care to admit to realize that the zip tie had been cut. My relief was short lived as another shrill scream erupted from my raw throat, the pain of the silver against my skin shooting up my left arm.

The agony blazing through my body felt like it lasted hours, days, searing along every nerve. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before, and I understood all too well the wolf’s visceral need to get away from silver.

An eternity later he pulled the blade away, and when I was finally able to will my muscles into cooperation I looked down to see that my left arm was similarly marked, and devoid of bindings. My arms were unbound, and yet I wasn’t sure that I possessed the strength to do anything with my newfound freedom.

The denim of my jeans stopped my legs from suffering the same fate as my arms, but my skin crawled and twitched at the close proximity of the silver nonetheless as he cut the zip ties securing my ankles.

Free. I was free. Now was my chance to escape. My muscles contracted, preparing to propel me into motion, but as I leapt up from the chair the hilt of the knife slammed into my temple. My vision blackened for a terrifying, heart pounding second as the blow knocked me back down into the chair with enough force to make the legs scrape across the floor.

“You’re not going anywhere, bitch,” he snarled, exhaling sour whiskey breath in my face. “We’re going to have some fun.” I seriously doubted that whatever he had in mind would be fun.

Grabbing me by the hair, he pulled me up out of the chair, using his convenient handle to propel me across the room. I would have spun and backhanded him across the face if it wasn’t for the persistent press of the knife’s tip against my side, pricking me through my shirt.

“I hope you rot in hell for this.”

“You first,” he growled in reply, driving me forward into the edge of the workbench hard enough to drive the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping like a fish. Keeping the knife pressed against my side he let go of my hair.

“Unbutton your jeans.”

“What?” I asked in a rasping voice high with the beginnings of hysterical laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Does this feel like I’m kidding?” he asked, pressing the bulge in his pants against my ass. It felt considerably bigger than it had looked, and my blood ran cold with dread. His demands were in line with the crazy plan I had concocted to try and bait him with the chance to fuck a were, but now that he was all too eager to do so, I had no desire to follow through.

“No, that feels like you’re a fucking sicko.”

“I’m a sicko?” he asked. “No, I figure it’s just time I found out what all the fuss is about. My wife couldn’t keep her hands off that wolf’s prick, and Holbrook can’t seem to get enough of you. Now, unbutton your jeans,” he demanded again, pressing the tip of the knife against my side hard enough to send a thin trickle of blood down towards my hip, and make me cry out.

My tears were hot as they rolled down my bruised and swollen cheeks, they stung the split in my lip before dripping down to the grimy surface of the workbench. With trembling hands I fumbled at the button of my jeans, and then through the wateriness of my vision I spied the screwdriver, right there in front of me, no more than a hand’s span away.

“No,” I whispered.

“What?”

“I said no, you fucking pig!” I shouted, driving an elbow back into his gut. His sour breath was hot against my cheek as he let out a sharp breath and took a step backwards, scouring the knife across the flesh over my ribs. My shout turned into a scream but I couldn’t let the pain slow me down, not while I had such a small window of opportunity. Using what little energy I had left, I snatched up the screwdriver with one hand and the forgotten whiskey bottle with the other.

Letting out a wordless battle cry I spun in place and swung the bottle awkwardly with my left hand. It connected with his skull with a satisfying meaty thump, staggering him backwards, the knife tumbling from his hand to clatter on the floor. Letting the bottle slip from my fingers it fell to the floor and shattered, spilling smoky smelling whiskey in a wide pool. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stomach the smell of whiskey again.

Brandishing my remaining weapon I took a step towards him, delighting in his reflexive step backwards. His beady eyes were bright with fear, and I liked it.

I drove the screwdriver deep into his thigh, the handle vibrating in my hand as the tip skittered across bone, and it was a fight to keep the grin from my face when his squeal split the air. My makeshift weapon quickly became slick with blood, my fingers slipping on the chipped plastic handle as I tried to pull it out of his leg. When it wouldn’t budge I let go, and switched to raining blows down on his face with my bloody fists.

I don’t remember stopping and stepping back, just the room slowly coming back into focus and staring down at my bloody hands, my knuckles split open but for some reason not hurting. Johnson lay on the ground unmoving, but still alive, sucking in wet, gasping breaths. My hands, covered in his blood and mine, vibrated with the desire to finish him off, but some small part of me held me back.

No. Killing him would make us as bad him.

“Fine,” I growled aloud, curling my hands into fists, reveling in the sticky feel of the blood oozing between my fingers. Rearing back, I delivered a kick to his balls. Staggering to the stairs, I clung to the banister as I hauled myself up one step at a time.

Reaching the top of the steps, I slammed the door shut behind me, sliding the bolt into place. It barely looked strong enough to hold back a toddler, let alone a full grown man, but I figured it would slow him down if he found the strength to come after me. Turning around I sagged back against the warped wood of the door, and let my gaze drift over my surroundings. The house looked as derelict and abandoned as the basement had, filled with dust and random piles of garbage. A lamp with a naked bulb was the only illumination in the room, and the bright light caused white after images to cloud my vision.

The sweat and cigarette smell I’d come to associate with Johnson lingered in the air, sour on the back of my tongue and adding fuel to the fire of anger still raging in my gut. A thought rose up from the dark recesses of my mind, urging me to go back down into the basement and finish him off, but I knew that if I did the woman who emerged wouldn’t be me anymore. Pushing the violent urge back down into the darkness I turned my attention back to the issue at hand.

Raking my eyes over the jumble of water stained cardboard boxes, their contents spilled in haphazard piles across the filthy and torn carpet, I spotted a phone buried amongst the junk. Stumbling in my haste to reach the phone, I pulled myself across the floor on my hands and knees to cover the last few feet. My slick fingers were already punching the buttons for 911 as I lifted the receiver to my ear and was met with silence.

Dead. The damn phone was dead.

Throwing the receiver down, my bloody fingerprints smeared across the beige plastic, I sat down heavily, pressing the heels of my palms to my eyes to staunch the flow of tears that began to spill down my cheeks. I could feel my adrenaline quickly ebbing away, leaking out of me with each fat tear that fell from my eyes. I had to move, I had to get out of there, but I was so tired. All I wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep.

You sleep, you die
, I told myself, some small part of my brain still conscious enough to realize that staying there would mean the end.

With limbs as heavy as lead I pushed myself up first to my hands and knees, and then to my feet. Swaying, I reached a hand out for the wall that was well out of range, and waited for the dizziness to abate, then moved towards the front door in a shuffling stagger.

Weaving down the sidewalk, I stumbled out into the street, my feet fighting for purchase on the packed snow and ice. The tatters of my shirt flapped in the wind as I slipped and fell, my knees striking the pavement hard enough to jolt me into a moment of clarity. I was in an older neighborhood, many of the houses in various states of disrepair, some of them looking as though no one had lived there for a long time. I tried to cry for help, but my voice came out a strangled wheeze, my throat raw from screaming and my tongue still thick and heavy from the drugs Johnson had doped me with.

Lurching to my feet I turned around, frantically looking for someone to help, or somewhere to hide. I knew he wouldn’t be out for long, and soon he’d be looking to finish what he started. Spinning around in the street, I saw approaching headlights bouncing across the slick asphalt a second before the car fishtailed and swung towards me. My brain screamed at me to run, but my body was slow to respond, and before I could react my legs were swept out from under me, throwing me back from the road.

I landed heavily on the curb, the ice crusted snow doing little to soften my fall. I felt the breath whoosh out of me as I rolled to a stop on my back, my arms and legs splayed like a discarded rag doll.

“Ouch,” I managed to croak, grateful that at least my lungs were working, even if everything else felt like it was broken.

Trying to roll over onto my side to push myself up, I instantly regretted the decision as my entire body cried out in pain. Collapsing back onto the snow I stared up at the starless night sky, and marveled at the ugly shade of muddy pink in the clouds as they reflected the city lights.

Maybe I’ll just lie here for a minute.

I heard a car door open and someone cursing under their breath as footsteps crunched in the snow, moving towards me. The light from the car’s headlights flickered as a figure moved in front of them and came to crouch beside me. My eyes were already slipping closed as the person knelt over me, their backlit face hidden in shadow. Hair tickled my face, smelling faintly of citrus, and then I was gone again, sinking down into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness.

* * *

Passing headlights danced over my closed eyelids, appearing as starbursts of color against the black. I could feel the vibrations of the road beneath the car’s tires through the leather pressed against my cheek. The rich scent of leather was all around me, the fragrance of it spoiled by the sickly sweet aroma of imitation pine that made my nose itch.

My eyes were gummy and scratchy as I pried them open, my vision slowly coming into focus. I couldn’t see much from my vantage point in the backseat of the car, just the glowing lights of the center console illuminating the offending cardboard tree emitting the stink of factory produced pine, and shining on a fall of familiar blonde hair.

“Ah, fuck,” I slurred, the sound of my voice making Chrismer glance back at me over her shoulder for a second, the corner of her blood red mouth tilting up in a smirk.

Her eyes flared silver in the darkness, pinning me to the pale leather.

“Go back to sleep, Ms. Cray,” she said, the deep reverberations in her voice sending tremors up my spine. Although it was Chrismer’s lips that formed the words, the voice behind them came from someone else. Someone very old, and very powerful.

“No...” I tried to protest, struggling to hang on to consciousness for another moment, reluctant to slip back into the cold darkness, but my eyes were already sliding closed, my limbs going slack. “Bitch,” was all I was able to mutter before I fell back into sleep, though even in the darkness I could hear her laughing.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MUFFLED VOICES, THE smell of antiseptic, and...
Chinese food?
pervaded my senses as I came to, sure that I must be dreaming. My stomach rumbled when I focused on the smell of sweet and sour pork, and I decided that maybe I wasn’t dreaming after all. Prying my eyes open, I frowned in disgust at the crusty gunk sticking my eyelashes together. My mouth tasted metallic and gritty when I licked my lips, the cut in my lip still sore and swollen. I tried to reach a hand up to touch my lip and felt a flare of panic when my arms wouldn’t move.