Witch Interrupted (35 page)

Katie gauged the distance between her tank and the one Marcus had been on. She could just make out the shadowy bulk of it. Ten feet?

Another quick check in Lars’s direction. No activity at floor level, but a constant stream of demands and threats, pinpointing his position. The metallic
shick
of a clip locking into a pistol interrupted his rant.
Ugh.
Well, if
she
could barely see shit, he’d be able to see less than shit.

She chucked the ladder across the empty space. The other end hit the second storage tank and bounced.

Stayed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lars, his face ghostly in the darkness, limped down the aisle between the tanks and pipes. Her ears told her he was wheezing. “I’m going to kill your father, you stupid girl, if you don’t come down here and trade yourself. That’s right. You wanted a trade. Come and get it.”

Katie eyed the ladder. Eyed Lars. Maybe, instead of plan A, she should…

“You’ve found the old man. Good.” Something—Lars’s foot—thunked against flesh. A wolf whined and paws scrabbled against the concrete. “Chang Cai, I’m going to kill your papa. Don’t you want to say goodbye?”

Was it really her father or was this a fake-out? She could make out dark, prowling wolves, the taller form of Lars. At least she could see better than he could. The factory, windowless here, was pitch black near the ceiling, which wasn’t that many yards higher than the top of the holding tanks.

“You can’t get away from me.” Lars started blasting away at her tank again. When he reached the end of the clip, he scrapped the gun and disappeared.

The moment the bullets ceased, Katie slithered across the ladder to the other tank as quietly as possible. The ladder clanked and jiggled but she made it. She dragged the ladder after her just as fast. She’d need it for phase two.

Had he seen? Surely he’d seen. The ladder was pale, almost shiny, and she’d made a lot of noise.

Lars began shooting again.

At the first holding tank.

This was her chance.

This was his chance.

The old man fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a penlight to flicker around the dark factory. He was trying to locate the woman. Marcus’s woman. The man was trying to kill her, which meant she was still alive.

Marcus crab-crawled under the tank, closer and closer to the two-legger and his guardians. He’d taken several wolves out already. Their blood tasted horrible on his tongue, salty and bitter.

He was pretty sure the man would taste worse.

That wouldn’t stop him from tearing open that bony white throat.

Marcus had never felt such anger, or such single-minded purpose, in his entire life. He had one thing to accomplish. One.

Kill the man.

His sharp eyes narrowed when a small guardian spotted him under the tank. The wolves’ vision wasn’t hindered by the low lighting. Marcus growled threateningly. The man couldn’t distinguish his voice from the others. The others would smell the blood of their companions on his fur and breath, letting them know what he was capable of.

He was better at being a wolf than they were. He was, after a brief period of confusion, the master of his body and actions. He doubted they’d challenge him.

When he inched from under the tank, the small wolf tucked her tail between her legs and bolted away from the man.

“Come back here!” The man aimed the flashlight and the gun in the direction of the fleeing wolf. Marcus could smell the rot of dying flesh from here. The two-legger’s arm dipped, and the shot missed. The wolf disappeared.

While the man’s attention was on the escapee, Marcus slunk into the group that encircled their alpha. Several were bumping and menacing an older wolf with a white muzzle sprawled on the ground behind the two-legger. Marcus could feel the pull of the two-legger’s persuasion but overcame it.

Another alpha had his loyalty.

Suddenly, from the top of a tank, a ladder hurtled through the darkness straight at the man. It smacked him in the head, knocking him to the ground amidst his wolves. Bone cracked—frail, two-legger bone.

The man gargled and moaned. The scent of blood enriched the air.

Wolves teemed around their ruler, tails frantic, noses snuffling. The flashlight beam bounced off tanks, pipes, wolves, as the penlight rolled freely across the ground. In the chaos, Marcus became conscious of a new voice.

Alpha. Good alpha. His alpha.

Kill him. Kill him now. Kill him while he’s down. You hate him. He hurts you. Kill him.

Her demand urged Marcus forward. She was right. He did hate the man. His jaws gaped wide. His muscles bunched. The other wolves, scrambled by the directive from the powerful woman, growled and snapped at each other.

In the confusion, the old four-legger with the white muzzle dashed forward and bit the man in the thigh. The man screamed in agony, and his scrawny limbs thrashed every direction.

“Stupid fucking wolves. How dare you? Obey me!”

The wolves milled, emanating fear scent. They were in Marcus’s way. Waves of sickness, pain and rage enveloped the man. Caustic herbal smells marked him too, items Marcus would need to avoid biting. He shouldered another wolf aside, almost within reach.

This was going to taste very, very disgusting. He crouched, ready to jump over the last couple wolves.

The penlight’s beam steadied on the holding tanks. Movement up high, slithering down.

“You bitch,” the man howled. “She’s trying to get away. Kill her!”

Scrapes, clanks and complaining metal interrupted Marcus’s deadly intent. Rust particles rained on the concrete. All the wolves except him and the old one were pushed by their alpha toward the corroded tank, where Marcus’s woman dangled off the side. The flashlight’s narrow beam revealed her path.

She was trying to get down. Trying to fight or run. She’d been too slow.

“Shit,” she exclaimed.

Wolves began leaping for her. Teeth snapped near her legs. She kicked, catching a wolf in the head.

The man dragged himself toward her, but something inside him was broken. Marcus waffled between the man and the woman. He wanted, most of all, to kill the man—but what about helping the woman?

What did he want more?

A wolf latched onto the woman’s pants. They tore off her limber, two-leg body. Blood decorated one of her legs. The wolves harassing her yelped with excitement as they smelled it. With a shriek, the metal pipe she clutched gave way, bending out and down with the woman still holding on.

She fumed and kicked. Blood droplets spattered the wolves below. The thin tube of metal, her lifeline, twisted and swayed—back and forth, as if in a high wind. She was barely out of the wolves’ reach.

Several gathered to spring. They’d have her.

The man Marcus wanted to kill had found a gun. He wouldn’t have to stand up to use it.

Marcus charged.

* * *

Katie braced for the pain of wolves ripping into her flesh as she dangled like a fishing lure on the broken metal pipe. A fitting end for Chang Cai—torn apart by transformed wolves.

The flashlight had revealed her getaway. Her knife was gone. The spell pods in her pants pockets were on the ground beneath the slavering wolves. The ferals hadn’t been driven mad by lust or violence this time. Oh, no. They’d been sicced on her by Lars.

She heard him cackling his approval right before the pipe broke.

Katie landed on a squirming wolf body. Bounced off, hit concrete. Someone howled. She folded herself into a tight ball and let her alpha side loose. If it bought her a few seconds, perhaps something new and amazing could go wrong.

Do not hurt me. Do not hurt me. Do not hurt me.

The wolves erupted into a giant free-for-all, as if her command had spurred them to kill instead of show mercy. The strange thing was they seemed to be killing each other.

Vicious snarls, howls, barks, whumps. Every moment she expected to feel teeth sink into her. She didn’t even have on any damn clothes! When her only wolf contact was to be repeatedly walloped by large, hairy bodies who then scrabbled away from her, she peered through cautious fingers.

Lars’s penlight wasn’t directed at her, so she couldn’t see much. Flashes of wolves struggling, jumping. Blood on the floor. The thin, bright beam paused ten feet past her, where a large black wolf, rangy and strong, leaped onto another wolf and savaged its throat.

“What are you crazy fuckers doing?” Lars screamed. “Quit fighting.”

Katie gulped. Several wolves trailed the black one. She could be the next victim if they noticed her. Should she run or would that draw attention? Make herself a target? Was one of these brawling wolves her father?

Where was Marcus?

Searching desperately for a solution, in the wavering light she spied a few spell pods that had rolled free of the pants. Green ones. Yellow ones.

A red one.

What could she do with the red one?

“Stop this nonsense,” Lars commanded. He’d probably broken a hip when she’d beaned him with the ladder, but that wouldn’t stop him from shooting guns—or directing his pack. He, like she, would use any tool he could to accomplish his goal.

It was what keepers did.

“Kill Chang Cai,” he insisted. “I am the director of the council. I rule you. I know you understand me, you damned, dirty mongrels. Do your job and perhaps I’ll let you live.”

Katie concentrated harder on the alpha persuasion Marcus had woken in her—she poured her strength and, what the hell, some magic into her effort.

Do not hurt me. Do not hurt me. Do not hurt me.

She imagined it flowing out of her like the waves of a spell. If only she had some lavender in her bra.

“Kill her, kill her,” Lars chanted. “If you don’t kill her, I’ll kill you all. Hey, what are you doing?”

Apparently “you” was barking and growling. Lars yelled. The light blinked out. Gunfire erupted close by. Wolves yelped. The asshole didn’t seem to care who or what he shot.

Katie inched toward the place she’d seen pods. Her knees and hands squished in liquid, syrupy blood, warm on the cold floor. As she crept, she simultaneously commanded the wolves not to hurt her—and tried to keep the tussling beasts between her and Lars.

She had no idea why her influence was making them fight each other when all she wanted was for them to leave her alone. Well, it would be
nice
if they’d take out Lars, but that wasn’t going to happen.

“Kill the woman,” he shrieked.

The flashlight guttered back on. Katie, staying low, bumped into a crouching, hairy body. A wolf. It growled fiercely. One of its fellow wolves had bitten it in the leg. Blood trickled onto the concrete.

That didn’t stop it from attacking her. Jaws gaped.

Katie smashed the cayenne pod into the wolf’s muzzle. Magic popped through her and the spell components. The wolf yelped once and collapsed.

“Who’s using magic?” Lars asked.

The bright beam fell on Katie. Beside her twitching victim, she froze and glanced toward Lars.

There were no wolves between them. Half seemed to be sprawled on the concrete, whining and bleeding. Others tussled. All of them ignored her and Lars. Lars displayed several bite marks but had gotten himself into a standing position, one leg hanging limp.

“Now we end this.” Lars raised the gun. His hand trembled. A wolf—a wolf whose white muzzle she could see even in the dark—huddled behind him.

Dad?

“I called the region elders with your flunkie’s cell phone,” Katie lied. Though it wasn’t a bad idea, if she could find it. “They know everything. The keeper council is being disbanded.”

“They can’t defend against my power. They will fall in line or die,” Lars snarled. He hopped sideways, keeping her in the light. “Like you.”

The black wolf jumped in front of Katie, growling. Its muzzle dripped with blood, but its hate was only for Lars.

Marcus.

“Come to defend your whore?” Lars, aiming at the wolf now, eased something out of his pocket with the other hand. Marcus crouched to spring. “Ignorant animal. No matter what parlor tricks you pull, your kind will always be inferior.”

Marcus rushed him. Instead of shooting, Lars flung the spell pod. It splashed against Marcus with an audible pop.

He stumbled. Took several more uncertain steps. And collapsed at Lars’s feet.

Katie smelled the draft of monkshood and cried out, the pain of loss so intense she thought she might be the one dying.

No, no, no.

Not caring that Lars had a gun, she charged across the space separating her from the director. He fired.

Something kicked her shoulder like a mule.

She didn’t let it stop her. Fucker was dead. She slammed into Lars and they tumbled back. She angled herself so he took the impact of the fall. She landed on him knees first. His gun clattered free across the concrete.

She didn’t need weapons, magic or even clothes to get her revenge for what he’d done to her—then and now.

Despite the jab in her shoulder, she closed hands around his throat and squeezed. Rage eased her pain and fuelled her with strength. Her own version of feral. He gagged and scrabbled, sick and feeble. Like her he had no gun, no magical weapons. His spells were all for wolves. Witches. Nothing he could do against another convex alpha.

Between the two of them, just the two of them, she was better. Stronger. Smarter.

Which is what he’d always feared, she realized. He would die knowing he’d been right.

“I win,” she whispered. Not because she was glad of it, but because it would damage him. She might be better and stronger than Lars—but that didn’t make her a good person.

His eyes bulged. His pulse beat against her fingers like a struggling animal. His fist caught her jaw, painful but not painful enough. One of his legs kicked while the other lay flat, broken. Tiny, muffled screams garbled out of his mouth as fear replaced his obsessive desire to kill her.

Good. He
should
wallow in fear. Fear and horror and regret.

His struggles flagged. His eyes fluttered shut. She squeezed harder. His body lurched with convulsive desperation. Her shoulder screamed with pain.

Time for this nightmare to be over. She felt no triumph in defeating an old, sick man, only exhaustion and heaviness and a soul-wrenching grief that he’d killed Marcus before she could kill Lars.

Monkshood. The ultimate weapon. Fast-acting, paralyzing, fatal. Goddess, why? Was she being punished? Could she at least say goodbye to him? There was no defense against…

Marcus’s herbal cocktail. His defenses.
His antidotes.
The bay capsules. The damned bay capsules.

New energy, something so much cleaner than rage and grief, zinged through her. She leaped to her feet. Who the hell cared if Lars survived? As long as she had a chance to save Marcus…

She grabbed the gun with her undamaged arm. Lars remained motionless. She could shoot the unconscious keeper, the man she’d wanted dead for fifty years, or she could…

Deal with it later.

Blood dripped down her torso, front and back. The bullet had gone through, and soon the blood loss would affect her.
Tick tock.

“Zhang Li,” she called to the wolf cowering in the shadows along the wall. Goddess, she hoped that was actually her father. And that none of the keeper wolves interfered. And that Marcus wasn’t wrong about his bay mix. “Guard him. Bite his throat if he moves. Kill him if you want. I’m getting medicine.”

The wolf scampered forward, into the radius of light from the flashlight. His fur was dappled gray and white, his tail a lush plume.

His eyes were her father’s. With what seemed like pleasure, he lowered his head to Lars’s neck and bared his teeth.

Katie checked the prostrate Marcus. He struggled to sit up and failed. When she touched him, he whined and licked her hand. His tail thumped once.

“I love you.” Her lips trembled. The monkshood had felled him so fast. It usually took longer—but Lars was extremely powerful. “Hold on.”

She took off through the darkness, woozy from the bullet wound. The lab. Marcus had supplies in the lab, his cocktail, his pills. Luckily she’d traversed this path before. She couldn’t do it blindfolded, but she’d memorized all routes in and out of the factory, a habit developed during the previous twenty years.