Thirteen
Page 11

“Under normal circumstances, I’d agree. But I don’t think this guy cares.”
The werewolf stopped in front of the cell. If those partially changed hands didn’t confirm something was wrong, his eyes did. Pupils so huge his eyes seemed black. The whites suffused with red. His breathing came hard, ragged.
“Drugged,” Jaime whispered. “Who’s stupid enough to drug a—?”
“Hello, ladies,” the werewolf said, his voice a deep rumble, almost a growl, as if his vocal cords were changing, too. So was his face—nothing drastic, but the planes and angles were off-kilter, making him look disfigured.
“Wh-what’s wrong with him?” the biker chick quavered.
 
The woman who’d been silent so far—a thirtyish blonde in a suit jacket and slacks—had risen to her feet. “Shut up,” she hissed to the biker chick.
“Don’t we have some pretty ladies here,” he said, his gaze tripping over Jaime and me. “Pretty ladies in a cage.”
“Which is locked,” I said. “If you want in, you’ll need to get the key.”
“Yes.” Jaime stepped closer to the bars and raked back her hair. “If you want to visit us, you need to find the key.”
“Are you fucking—?” the biker chick screeched to a stop. Frozen. Caught in a binding spell.
“Nice one,” Jaime whispered.
“That wasn’t me.”
The blonde stepped up beside Jaime and flicked open the top button on her blouse. “Go find the key,” she said to the werewolf. “Then we can play.”
He inhaled, nostrils flaring, then lumbered off.
When he was gone, the blonde whispered. “You know what he is?”
“Canis lupus,” I said. “Human variety.”
“And you are?”
“Savannah Levine.”
“Sav—?” Her eyes widened. Then she nodded. “Good.”
“Not so good. My mojo is on the fritz, so we’re going to need to rely on you.”
“What about … ?” she looked at Jaime. “Wait. I know you. You’re—”
“Good on a stage,” Jaime said. “Lousy in a fight. We’ve got another necro.” She nodded at the old woman. “And I’m guessing one reasonably innocent bystander.” A glance at the biker chick, now huddled on the floor.
“Keiran Courville,” the blonde said. “My mojo’s not much better. Been sick as a dog since they brought me in. Drugged, I think.”
“Shit.” I looked at Jaime. Not food poisoning after all. Either Medina or Holland must have injected her somehow. My money was on Medina.
So we had four supernaturals in a cage, three probably drugged. A drugged werewolf on the loose. What the hell was going on?
“You ladies fighting over me already?” a voice asked.
We all flinched as the werewolf sauntered back into view.
“You need a key,” I said.
“Fuck the key—can’t be bothered. I want in now.”
He grabbed the door and yanked, neck tendons bulging, and the door snapped open.
I stepped in front of Jaime.
“Okay, big guy,” I said. “You know you’re in serious shit right now. That blood tells me someone’s dead. And considering this is a police station, that someone is a cop, meaning—”
He grabbed me by the shirtfront. “You like to use that mouth, bitch? I’ll show you where you can use it.”
“Let me guess?” I said. “Here?”
I kneed him in the groin. Yes, it’s a cheap shot, but I wasn’t really concerned with fighting fair right now. Or with preserving his ability to procreate.
He dropped me on my ass. And he should have dropped himself, because it was a helluva blow. But he only snorted, then came at me as I scooted back.
“Hey, handsome,” Jaime called. “Forget the little girl. I’ve got something you want.”
He looked from me to her, then lumbered toward her. Keiran hit him with an energy bolt.
“What was that?” the biker chick screeched as the werewolf fell back, a scorched spot on his side.
 
I launched a fire ball—well, more like a firefly—but my aim was good and it hit him in the eye. He bellowed louder than he had when I’d gotten his crotch.
That shot of rage jump-started his stalled Change. His brow and jaw receded, mouth and nose jutting. Thick, black hair sprouted from his chest and back.
“What the hell?” the biker chick shrieked. “What the fucking hell?”
“Is that a werewolf?” the old necromancer said. “I’ve never seen a werewolf.”
He charged her. I cast a binding spell. It didn’t work. Keiran launched something and maybe it did work, but it didn’t stop him. Didn’t even slow him down. He grabbed the old woman by the hair and wrenched. Her neck snapped. He threw her across the cell. She hit the wall and collapsed like a rag doll.
The biker chick started to scream. Really scream. A high-pitched wail that caught the werewolf’s attention like the squeal of a rabbit. He turned on her.
I tried another binding spell. When it failed again, I grabbed Jaime and shoved her toward the broken cell door, waving for Keiran to follow.
As we tumbled out into the hall, Jaime glanced back. Her eyes widened and she stopped. I pushed her along the hall, and she didn’t struggle, just wrenched her gaze from the screaming woman and the werewolf and didn’t look back again.
I didn’t look back at all. Didn’t dare, because if I did, I might go back and try to save her. If I tried, I’d lose the opportunity to get us out of there. So I didn’t.
The biker chick didn’t scream for long.
The door into the main part of the station flew open. I stopped short, arms flying out to keep the others back.
 
Medina shot inside, followed by Holland. Both were staring over their shoulders. Medina shut the door quietly, then leaned her forehead against it.
Holland’s gaze stayed fixed on the door. His hands fluttered in front of his chest. It took a second to realize what he was doing. Crossing himself.
“It’s okay, Rory,” Medina murmured, face still against the door. “We’re safe now.”
Holland kept crossing himself and closed his eyes. I motioned for Jaime and Keiran to be still, then crept forward, and slid the gun from Holland’s holster. I had it halfway out before he noticed. He grabbed for it, but I yanked it free. Medina’s head snapped up. She went for her own weapon, but her holster was empty. Her lips parted in a curse.