Читать книгу Taken - Lilith Saintcrow - Страница 14

The van jolted, and Sophie clawed up into full wakefulness, biting back a scream. Someone had draped a coat over her, and it was warm. Thin winter sunlight showed leafless trees, a few ragged pines, not blurring by but merely ambling. The vehicle made a deep turn, braked to a halt, and the engine cut off.

Finally. They were stopping. The eerie quiet in the car was breaking up, too, like ice in a river. Her ears had felt stuffed with cotton wool, but maybe it was the crying.

“Wake up.” The girl shook her shoulder, fingers biting in. Her voice was rusty, as if she’d spent weeks instead of hours not talking. “Time to wash, bleeder.”

Sophie sat up, blinking, and found the tank top had ridden up and twisted around, and the skirt—never very decent in the first place—was hitched up to show her panties, for God’s sake. Her entire face was crusty and aching, and she had to use the bathroom like nobody’s business. Her stomach rumbled.

The side door opened and the van cleared out. It was amazing, how people could fit in here. Clothes tangled across the floor, one bench seat had been taken out, and the back was stuffed with plastic bags. It didn’t smell bad, though, just musky and close.

Sophie clutched the coat to her chest. The girl made a spitting sound of annoyance. “Come on, will you? I’ve got to pee before my kidneys float away.”

You’re not the only one. Mechanically, she pulled the skirt down, tried to straighten the tank top. Lucy’s black heels were on the floor, and the way her back ached she didn’t think she could stand to put them back on.

But she did, because cold air was pouring in through the open side door. Frost rimed the slice of a parking lot she could see, and as soon as she hopped awkwardly out of the van, pulling her skirt down and shivering, she found out they were at a rest stop off the freeway. A brick building housed restrooms, a creek wandered on the side away from the freeway down a short hill, and another building had vending machines behind iron grating, a wall full of maps in plastic cases, and—oh, my God—a Kiwanis booth selling coffee.

An old man sat in the booth, reading a newspaper, occasionally glancing out over the empty parking lot. The van, she now saw, was an older maroon Chevy, and her eyes came back to the man in the coffee booth.

The girl—Julia—jostled her from behind. She had dark eyes, long straight dark hair starred with that single streak that turned out to be white, and a sweet face, with the type of clear pale skin only found on the very young. Amazing skin. She was pretty, but there was an unfinished look around her mouth, like she was trying to be hard and not quite succeeding.

And she looked, for some reason, spoiled. Sophie couldn’t put her finger on quite how, but she had the same overprivileged look as the mean-girl cheerleaders from Sophie’s high school years.

“Come on.” The girl slung her arm over Sophie’s shoulders and started hurrying her to the bathrooms. She was a good head taller, and skinny, but strong. Sophie struggled to keep up, stumbled, and almost turned her ankle. And the girl began to whisper, very fast and low, as if she’d been bursting to talk. “Jeez. You are useless. Don’t worry, I’ve got some stuff that might fit you. Zach’ll take care of anything else later today, probably. We had a good haul last night.” Julia took a deep breath, squeezed Sophie’s shoulders roughly. “He was my brother. Kyle.”

What? Last night was distant and dreamlike, receding like the van. Her heels clicked. Her stomach cramped, and her back was made out of aching concrete. There seemed nothing to say.

“The one who got killed last night. He was my brother.” Julia cast a glance back over her shoulder, her voice dropping even further.

“Oh.” Sophie couldn’t think of anything else to say. My best friend got killed, too, I guess we’re even didn’t sound, well, very useful. It was what Lucy would call Not Helpful.

“It’s not your fault,” Julia continued softly, and she sounded magnanimous, condescending, and outright miserable all at once. “I’m stupid. I’ve always been stupid. I just don’t think. Not like Zach. And our alpha’s dead and all we’ve got is a stupid bleeder to show for it.” She paused, and cast another quick little glance over her shoulder. “Even if you do smell like Mom. I never … I was just … I thought I could kill it. The upir. I’m good at that.”

What, you mean you’re good at killing? God, what a thing to say to someone you’ve kidnapped. Sophie shivered. The thing in the white shirt. She’d stuck around long enough to see something awful, something so unreal, her mind even now shivered away from it. She flinched all over, inside and out, and stumbled again.

It was dark and I was just confused. That’s all.

It was, Sophie reflected, a bad time to start lying to herself. She needed to think clearly if she was going to get out of this mess, and part of thinking clearly was figuring out last night.

What actually had happened? The only thing she was sure of was that Lucy was dead, and she had started running, screaming, a confusion of panic roaring through her. Lucy’s white face, the terrible gaping hole where her throat should be, the thing in the white shirt snarling as its face twisted up, white teeth too big for its livid-lipped mouth—

“Watch where you’re going,” the girl said as Sophie tripped, and hauled her up over the curb. “Jeez. Heels. Why didn’t you wear something practical?”

You little … Sophie found her voice. “I didn’t know I was going to be kidnapped.” The sarcasm surprised her. “Or watch my best friend get killed. I kind of forgot to put it in my day planner.”

“Huh.” Julia let go of her. She studied Sophie intently for a long moment, and stopped whispering. “I guess.” She held up her free hand, which was full of cloth. “I’ve got something you can change into. If you want.”

Oh, God. I’ve been kidnapped and she wants me to dress appropriately. “Fine.” The side of her face hurt, but it didn’t seem to be too bruised. She didn’t dare glance at the old man in the Kiwanis booth. If I can get over there—he’s got to have a phone, right? Or something.

The bathroom was cold and industrial, but well-lit and actually clean. The clothes turned out to be a pair of jeans that fit if she rolled up the legs like a little kid, and a long-sleeved thermal shirt that clung embarrassingly. There was a flannel button-down, too, with the same smell of musk and laundry detergent, but no socks and absolutely no undergarments.

The girl steered her toward the handicapped stall; Sophie shivered through changing and spent a blissful few minutes getting rid of the pressure on her bladder. When she came out, clutching Lucy’s clothes to her chest, she looked longingly at the sink. It would feel so nice to wash her face, even if the water was freezing.

But Julia was still in a stall, humming something off-key. Sophie clutched the sad, small scraps of clothing and the heels, hugging them, and caught a glimpse of herself in the scratched piece of metal passing for a mirror. Wide eyes, her smudged glasses, and a wild mop of hair. She probably looked like a bag lady, though the side of her face wasn’t that badly discolored. There was just a tender spot under her hair and puffy redness down her cheek, and she’d had worse.

Much worse.

She stared at the mirror for a few seconds, trying to clear her head. A rattling sound echoed in the depths of her memory, and she shivered. But it made her start moving, impelled by the sure intuition that had saved her more than once. It didn’t happen often, that tingle along her nerves. Since leaving Hammerheath, it had always been accompanied by the rattling buzz of copper-bottomed—

Did I feel it last night, and just not pay attention? She pushed the question aside and took the first few tentative steps.

Her purse was still in the van. Stupid, stupid, stupid! she chanted inwardly as she edged, heart hammering, for the entrance. Cold tile gritted under her bare feet, and she eased out of the hallway and into the chill of a winter morning. Without the heels, her footsteps were silent.

She set off for the Kiwanis booth, not daring to look over her shoulder. Don’t act guilty. But walk quickly. Walk determined. Catch his eye.

Her stomach rumbled. If she could catch the man’s attention and ask him to call the police, she could get free, she could … what? Give a statement?

What statement could she give? She hadn’t seen anything she could swear to, just things out of a nightmare. Things with fangs, and a confused impression of something leaping, something covered in hair like a …

Like what, exactly? She couldn’t put it into words. And the rattling in her head got louder.

Forty feet away, the man coughed behind his newspaper. Her feet were numb; she stepped on a pebble and winced. Going barefoot at home was nothing like this. The jeans were raspingly unfamiliar, and she really wanted nothing more than her own kitchen, her ratty chenille robe, and a hot cup of coffee. And a Danish. A warm one, dripping with icing and with chunks of brown-sugar-drenched apple.

She could almost taste it, and hurried up. Thirty feet. Twenty-five.

The air was still except for the hum of traffic from the freeway. What was she going to say? This isn’t a joke. I’ve been kidnapped. Please help me.

She practiced it inside her head, clutching the clothes to her chest. Cold morning wind touched her hair, and the sky was still orangeish in the east from dawn. If she was at home she’d probably still be in bed, and if Lucy stayed over—

Pain jabbed through her chest. Oh, Lucy. Luce. God.

The rattling in her head got worse. Fifteen feet. Ten.

She opened her mouth—and let out her breath in a sigh when the man looked up, his hazel eyes caught in a net of crinkles, his smile immediate and genuine.

The buzzing rattle stopped.

A heavy arm fell over her shoulders. “Cup of coffee, sweetheart?” Zach said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Everything in her cringed away. She stared at the old man, willing him to realize she’d been about to ask him for help. The sore spot under her hair throbbed, and her cheek was on fire.

The old man grinned even wider, if that was possible. She saw the glasses dangling on a chain at his chest, and her heart sank. “What a pretty young miss. I call all the young girls ‘miss.’ Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Zach’s arm tightened. “Make that three coffees, please. And probably a doughnut for her, too. We’ve been driving all night.”

“Family trip?” The man eased off his stool and shuffled around the small booth. “Reason I ask is, I heard your van door.”

Zach grinned easily. “Yeah, heading south. Warmer down there.” His arm tightened again, and he—of all things—bent down and kissed the top of Sophie’s head, inhaling deeply. As if smelling her. She writhed inwardly with embarrassment; what was she supposed to do? Start screaming?

What would he do if she did?

A sudden crystalline image from last night, right before she’d run off like a panicked idiot, burned through her brain. It was the thing that had killed Lucy, snarling and champing its too-big teeth, while Zach’s shape changed like clay under running water.

Growing fur.

Sudden certainty nailed her in place, the chill concrete biting into her feet. I didn’t imagine that. I saw it. That’s what made me run. I saw it all.

“Oh, I hear ya, I hear ya.” The old man shrugged inside his jacket, setting out three foam cups, putting a pink bakery box on the small counter. “Honey, why don’t you just peek in there and see if there’s a doughnut you like? I got apple fritters, and Bismarcks, and all sorts of good things. Fresh this morning, too.”

Sophie swallowed hard, her throat making a little clicking noise. Zach bumped her, gently, and she was suddenly very sure that if she didn’t try to act normally, something would Happen.

Like something “happened” to Lucy? He said they weren’t going to hurt me.

He could have been lying. She’d heard “I’m not going to hurt you” before. If she had a quarter for every time she’d heard it, she wouldn’t have to worry about scraping together rent for a year.

Zach used his free hand to open up the top of the bakery box. “See anything good?” He sounded concerned. Morning light was kind to him, running over the shadow of stubble on his face, the thin nose, dark eyes a lot of women probably liked. His hair was a soft mess except for the wiriness of the white streak. One stubborn wave of it fell over his forehead, and he actually grinned down at her like he was having a great time.

Sourness rose in her throat. He’d kidnapped her, and had the effrontery to smile and put his arm over her shoulder like he owned her?

“I’m not hungry,” she managed through the stone in her throat. “But thanks.” She stared at the old man, her eyes burning. Look at me. Please see me. Please help me.

“Dieting? Never did anyone any good, honey. First three letters of diet are a warning, that’s what they are.” He wasn’t looking at her; he was pouring the coffee, frowning a little. She tried leaning away from Zach’s arm, but it was useless. Her feet went numb, aching from the cold. “My wife used to say that. Cream and sugar?”

“Only in one.” Zach peered into the bakery box, pulling her with him. “And I think we’ll take two of these apple fritters. They look nice.”

“You go ahead now. That’ll be three dollars for the coffee, young man. You just take those fritters as a gift from me.”

“Why, thank you.” He sounded so normal, so nice, as if he hadn’t kidnapped a woman and killed—

Oh, my God. He killed that thing, didn’t he? “Upir,” he’d said. Her head hurt just thinking about it, spikes of glassy pain through her temples.

Nobody would miss her for another twenty-four hours, and by then, who knew how far away they would have taken her? Her ferns would die, she wouldn’t be at work Monday morning, and Battle-Ax Margo, the office manager, would have a conniption. Nobody knew she’d gone out with Lucy, and Luce was between boyfriends. What was happening right now? Were the police trying to find her? Trying to find Lucy’s car keys?

If I hadn’t divorced Mark someone would be missing me right now—but if I hadn’t run away in the first place I wouldn’t have been out last night. God.

Zach moved again, and she almost flinched, but he was handing her two monstrous apple fritters wrapped in a napkin, tucking them on top of the clothes she clutched to her chest. “Here. Hold these, sweetie. Why don’t you head on back to the car, and I’ll bring your coffee?”

The old man chuckled. She realized he was not just shortsighted; he just really wasn’t interested in anything she might say. “My wife was like that. Bit of a bear in the morning without her coffee, God bless her.”

“Go on, now.” Zach gave her a meaningful look, and when Sophie snapped a glance over her shoulder she saw the two other men at the open van, watching intently. They all had those weird pale stripes in their hair, like a dye job gone wrong. Maybe it was a gang sign?

Yeah, like the badass Lady Clairols. Come on, Sophie. Think of something!

There was nobody else around, and what could the old man do?

Nothing. She was just as helpless now as she’d been last night.

“Fine.” She backed up as Zach’s arm fell away. Her feet felt frozen, and if she stepped on anything sharp now she’d probably be too numb to care. Each step was another jab of freezing pain up her legs, and her toes felt clumsy.

The younger boy, sitting crouched just inside the van door, eyed her. He was a male copy of Julia, but instead of looking spoiled and unfinished he had a perpetually worried grin and a way of hunching his shoulders as if he was painfully uncertain. “You okay?” he asked, softly, tilting his head to the side. His eyes were red-rimmed and his nose a little chapped from crying.

The other one, bigger and broad-shouldered but not as tall as Zach, had odd, piercing blue eyes. He regarded her warily, hunching inside his tattered leather jacket. He had one hand raised, and as she glanced at him his strong white teeth worried a little at the leather cuff of his sleeve.

No, I’m not okay. How could I be anything like okay? But some instinct made her hold out the fritters with one hand freed from the clothes, despite the way her stomach growled. “Here. These are for you.”

“Hey, thanks!” The younger one grabbed one, took a huge wolfish bite, and grinned. The blue-eyed one took the other more slowly, but at least he stopped snacking on his sleeve. “I’m Brun. This is Eric. He’s our cousin. Gee, aren’t your feet cold? Come on up.” He moved aside, and Sophie mechanically climbed into the van. It still held a ghost of warmth.

They both peered at her, the one in the leather jacket nibbling at his fritter now.

“These are really good,” Brun continued. “Are you really a shaman?”

“She’s a found shaman, not even triggered. She wouldn’t know, not yet.” The blue-eyed one—Eric—eyed her speculatively. “This means we can settle down somewhere.”

“You think? It’d be nice. We haven’t settled anywhere since the farm …” Maddeningly, he stopped, and gave her a shy smile. Dark puppy eyes glimmered at her. “It’s nice to meet you. You’re going to take care of us?”

It was too absurd to even guess at an answer. “You kidnapped me.” She sounded flat and unhelpful even to herself. “I’m supposed to take care of you? “

“We’re Carcajou.” Eric shrugged. “Makes no sense to you now, but it will. And Zach’s—”

“Zach’s what?” Zach was at the door suddenly, his shadow filling it, and the other two fell silent. “Coffee, Eric. Courtesy of our new shaman. Isn’t she sweet?”

“Breakfast?” Julia arrived, looking fresh as a daisy, her glossy hair combed and her face pink from scrubbing. Sophie’s skin crawled, and her mouth tasted like ashes. “Where’s mine?”

“You don’t get any,” Zach said pleasantly. “I told you to watch her.”

“She’s right here.” Julia’s lower lip stuck out, and she looked supremely confident that she would get her way.

“Get in the van. If we lose our shaman like we lost our alpha, I’m holding you responsible. Even if it’s not on your watch.” Zach’s pleasant tone and even smile didn’t change, but something in his face shifted, and the morning grew a little chillier. Sophie eased back, suddenly very sure something awful was about to happen. She’d felt the same way before, whenever Mark was a certain type of quiet or smelled too strongly of liquor when he came home.

But Julia just bowed her head and hopped into the van. They all moved so gracefully it was unreal. The rest of them piled in, and Sophie was suddenly in the middle of a press of bodies. Zach thrust a foam cup into her hands. “Cream and sugar, sweetheart. And then we’ll figure out getting you a toothbrush and everything. You’re probably not ready for life on the road.”

That is such an understatement. Sophie stared at him. The van door heaved shut, closing the empty parking lot outside. It might as well be the surface of the moon. It was just as far away—and just as useless to her.

The weird crackling quiet folded over all of them. She was about to say something—plead, maybe, or point out that they were kidnapping her, or something equally useless. But the odd silence filled every corner of the van and stopped the words in her throat.

The van started up again, and she found herself huddling against the wall on the far side, the coffee in her numb hands and her face aching. It was no use.

She was trapped. At least, for now.