Hour of the Lion, Cherise Sinclair [good story books to read TXT] 📗

'I‘d rather you lived, damn it,' she gritted out as she brushed the drenched hair out of his face.

'I wish.' His eyes were very green as he looked up at her. 'My body pretty much shut down yesterday. It‘s a shifter thing; metal‘s bad for us, and that cage...' His mouth twisted in remembered pain.

'The docs will start IV‘s, give you blood, fluid, food—you‘ll be fine.'

'No. But it‘s okay. I knew it was gonna happen.' Regret filled his eyes, and he blinked back tears. 'My grandfather—he‘ll be all alone now. He doesn‘t have anybody but me.'

'Live for him,' she urged. So many people had died in her arms, she couldn‘t face another.

Not this boy—he wasn‘t old enough to die. Her chest felt raw and open.

'Not an option.' His lips were blue, the color of death. 'You got nobody either?'

She shook her head. 'No.' A couple friends on the other side of the planet. And Wells—

could a spymaster be considered family?

'Now you will.' He gasped in a breath. 'Go to my grandpa, Vicki. In Cold Creek. Tell him what happened to me. Promise?'

'Promise. I‘ll bring him to you in the hospital.' Yeah, she‘d find the old man wherever he was. 'But you will be there, you hear me?'

His forehead wrinkled. 'How does it go?'

'What?'

He rubbed the scrapes on his shoulder. His fingers came away blood-streaked. 'Fire in blood.'

Raising his hand, he wiped his tear-streaked cheek. 'Water.'

'Lachlan?'

He pursed his lips, puffed on his wet, bloody fingers. 'Air.'

'What are you doing? Lachlan?' He didn‘t seem to hear her. Delusional? She‘d seen it before with blood loss.

He touched her filthy face and smiled at the dirt. 'Earth.'

'Honey, I want you to rest,' she urged. Please don"t do this to me—live! For a second, his face blurred into her teammate, gasping her life away, and Vic‘s arms tightened. Oh, please, not again. 'Just concentrate on breathing and—'

'And finally my spirit—that‘s the gift. I remembered it,' he told her, pride in his young, young voice. 'C‘mere.' He lifted his arm for a hug. She leaned forward and winced as his dirty fingers dug into her mangled, bleeding shoulder.

A second later, he slid his arm down for a true hug and pulled her close. 'Tell Grandpa I gifted you...and you‘re my gift,' he breathed in her ear.

Her arms closed around him. 'Dammit, you‘ll tell him, Lachlan. You‘ll tell him.'

But only silence answered her.

Gone. He was gone.

Vic slumped back on the couch. Her cheeks were wet. Even as she scrubbed her face with her hands, she felt more tears spill from her eyes. What was wrong with her? She never cried.

People died. All the fucking time. She hadn‘t even known this kid. Tears ran down her cheeks, falling like little explosions of her grief onto Lachlan‘s empty face.

Footsteps heralded the return of the old man. 'I‘ve got—' The rest of his sentence was cut short by the wailing of multiple sirens, approaching rapidly. 'I‘ll go wave them in.'

Vic could see the emergency vehicle lights through the thin front window drapes. She slipped out from under Lachlan‘s body, hesitated long enough to touch his cheek in farewell. His skin was already cooling.

She took a shaky breath and moved away.

At the window, she pushed open a crack in the drapes. Ambulance in front and a cop car across the street. What would law enforcement do with her story? Uncertainty churned inside her. Were Swane‘s police buddies out there?

Paramedics jumped out of the ambulance and were met by the old man. Over at the police car, a uniformed cop was talking with someone. The lights, still flashing, illuminated his grim face and that of...Swane. As the kidnapper talked, the cop nodded and turned toward the house, hand on his pistol.

Oookay. That answered that.

A minute later, as Vic eased over the back fence, she heard Swane yell, 'Where‘s the girl?'

The thwarted anger in his voice awarded her a moment of pleasure before she landed painfully on the other side of the fence.

Chapter Two

The next afternoon, Vic steered the decrepit Jeep around a curve and entered Cold Creek.

She sighed wearily. Between the slashes on her back and ribs, the bite on her shoulder, her aching knee, and the various blows she‘d taken from Swane...well, maybe she‘d felt worse the day the house in Baghdad was bombed with her in it, but not by much. God, she hurt.

She hadn‘t even gotten to beat the hell out of the assholes—that really burned.

Her head felt hot and gritty, like it was filled with desert sand. She probably should have tried to get more sleep, but Seattle didn‘t feel safe. Not with who-knows-who looking for her.

Hopefully they‘d stay too busy for a while to focus on her. After her anonymous phone call to the police, the bad guys should be scrambling to cover their tracks. And wasn‘t that hopeful thinking—they‘d probably just abandon the place and the dead woman.

Oh shit. Was she brain-dead or what? That woman and others had died because Lachlan bit them.

Lachlan bit me. The good news: with him gone, no more victims would die. At least until they caught another cat-thing.

Bad news: I might die too. Her chest felt hollow. Dying for something so stupid wasn‘t how she‘d planned to go. If she had to check out, it was supposed to be in a blaze of glory, saving her buddies or a bunch of civilians. Not shivering and puking from being used as a feline chew-toy.

Go to a hospital? She shook her head. Swane would watch for someone admitted with an animal bite. She might call Wells for help, but he‘d expect the whole story. Yeah, see, I got bitten by some shapeshifter thing? She herself barely believed people could turn into animals, and she‘d seen Lachlan do it. The old man dealt in cold, hard, provable facts. He‘d figure she‘d gone bonkers and put her in a padded cell. So, no hospital.

The suit had thought the bitees died because they were in poor health to begin with. I"m not weak,