The Wolven (The Keepers Trilogy #3)

The Wolven (The Keepers Trilogy #3) Page 34

If everyone returned empty-handed, then they would have no choice but to bring in additional help.

That wasn’t an easy thing for Danyon to admit. He took great pride in being an alpha, and never once had he ever considered his role as leader, protector, defender a burden.

It was his purpose in life.

Pride would have to take a backseat. The only thing that mattered was the safety of the weres, protecting them against the psychopath who had already killed three of their own.

If it took a boatload of vampires, a battalion of shifters and every breed of were in North America to find the murderer and stop him from killing again, then bring them on.

Since the final directive to call in additional, outside help had to come from August, Danyon planned to speak to him about it as soon as everyone met up again. And they were scheduled to gather in August’s conference room in the morning.

He swiped a hand over his face, wishing he could wipe away the fatigue that weighed him down, and the sense of defeat that wanted to drown him.

In that moment, he felt Shauna rest a hand gently on his arm.

So reassuring and soothing. So calming. It was as though she had heard his every thought.

Danyon closed his eyes, and allowed himself to get lost in her touch. And in that one blissful moment, he found absolute peace.

Chapter 20

After quietly slipping back into her clothes, Shauna grabbed her sneakers and snuck out of Danyon’s bedroom, where he still lay sleeping, then out of the penthouse. She rode the private elevator down to the back entrance, then put on her sneakers and headed outside.

It was a little after 4:00 a.m., the only time of day when New Orleans’ streets were relatively quiet. This morning she heard a chorus of hydraulic hisses from trash trucks cleaning the streets down in the Quarter. She certainly didn’t envy their job this morning. No doubt the mountain of trash left over from a half million people celebrating Nuit du Dommage would rival Mt. Everest.

Shauna glanced up at the dark, clear sky and saw that the moon was nearing its apex. She didn’t worry about Danyon’s wolven during a full moon because they were a breed of werewolves whose transformation trigger wasn’t dependent on the moon. But she did worry about humans, because their emotions seemed to be at the mercy of any full-faced moon. Any policeman or hospital worker would testify to that. During a full moon cycle, the number of crimes blew through the roof, and emergency rooms overflowed with victims, as well as perpetrators, of gunshot wounds, stabbings, cuts and broken bones from fights, and a myriad of injuries from car accidents spurred by road-rage.

A full moon always made Shauna restless. Add to that restlessness her worry about a murderer targeting her weres, and she wound up with a bad case of insomnia.

Although she hadn’t said anything to Danyon, Shauna feared he was right. They had been running after shadows and were making little to no progress. Even worse, she had an unsettling feeling that all hell was about to break loose. She had turned all the few, ragged pieces of information they had collected over the last two days over and over in her mind until they made even less sense than they did before. The only way she knew to clear her head was to move—jog—run.

The predawn air was crisp, and the humidity low. Shauna breathed in deeply, then began to stretch her back, arms, and legs. There were very few street lights along Burgundy, almost non-existent when compared to the heart of the Quarter, but, with the help of the moon, she had plenty to light her way.

After a few minutes of stretching, Shauna started off with a slow jog. She quickened her pace after two blocks, then broke into a full run after four. The wind in her face, heart rate rising, the sound of her sneakers thumping rhythmically on the sidewalk—this was her safe haven. The rest of the world was welcome to all the Xanax on the market. This was her drug of choice.

Soon, the worries that clogged her mind began to slip away.

Shauna was only a few blocks from Esplanade, which she planned to take south to the French Market, when she caught sudden movement off to her left, out of the corner of her eye. It barely had time to register in her brain before she found herself abruptly slammed to the ground by a flying tackle.

In a flash, a hand clamped over her mouth and a knee dug into her back. Shock kept Shauna immobile for a moment or two, then she started kicking, tried to scream, flailed her arms in an attempt to throw her attacker off balance. Something cold and metal was slapped across her left wrist. Then it tightened and clicked.

Handcuffs?

In a full blown panic now, Shauna screamed into the hand covering her mouth and swung her right arm wildly to keep it from being restrained. The struggle proved futile, however. Her attacker pinned her arm and cuffed it so quickly she might as well have been paralyzed.

Shauna kicked out with both feet, jerked her body from side to side, frantic to escape. Another hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked hard, forcing her to her feet. She had yet to catch even a glimpse of her attacker.

With one hand clamped over her mouth and another wrapped tightly in her hair, Shauna was shoved into motion. She kicked backwards, first with her right foot, then with her left, wanting to connect with a knee, a shin, testicles. When that failed, she tried to run, but was immediately jerked back by the hair, then shoved forward faster.

Soon she was forced into an alley on the right, then left, behind a building—left again into another alley. Tears streamed down Shauna’s cheeks, which made her angry. The last thing she needed to do right now was cry. With a hand over her mouth, if her nose got stuffed up, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. And what good would crying do anyway? She had to keep her head clear and figure out a way to break free.

The hand over her mouth pressed harder over her lips, but Shauna still managed to open her mouth just wide enough to bite down on a small pad of flesh. She bit hard into the palm, and twisted from side to side, like a dog with a bone.

It was then that something hard and heavy slammed down on Shauna’s head. And the moon went from full…to black.

When Shauna’s eyes fluttered open, it didn’t take long for her to realize she wasn’t waking from a bad dream. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back, and she was standing, bent in half, the upper part of her body lying on a sheet of plywood that appeared to be some kind of makeshift table. The left side of her head throbbed terribly, and she felt something sticky on her neck and left cheek. She figured it was blood.

Shauna tried to stand up and realized that her legs had been pulled back and spread wide apart, and her ankles restrained. She lifted her head and looked about, trying to figure out where she might be. But she could hardly make out a thing. Her eyesight was blurry, and two huge spotlights that stood about twenty feet or so in front of her blinded her all the more.

She pressed her right cheek against the scratchy plywood and turned her head to the left. Even without the light in her eyes, she only saw shadows and darkness. But there was depth to that darkness, indicating a vast space. She turned her head to the right and saw the same. Whatever this place was, it smelled of dirt, rust, and motor oil.

Suddenly, a loud clatter echoed around her. It sounded like a heavy tool, like a pipe wrench, falling to a concrete floor. The sound jump-started Shauna’s heart and sent it racing. She lifted herself as high as she could and yelled, “Help! Somebody, help! Hel—”

Her head was slammed to the plywood, sending a shower of shooting stars before her eyes. Someone held her face down, smashing her nose, forehead, and chin into the plywood. They pressed harder, harder still, fingers digging into the wound she already had on her head. The throbbing pain she had felt only moments ago was turned into an excruciating fireworks display in her mind.

Shauna felt herself fading to black and fought it.

Can’t lose consciousness! Can’t! Have to fight!

The shooting stars returned briefly, then blinked out, only to return seconds later in multiples of a thousand.

Somewhere between dark and light, Shauna realized that her shirt and been pushed up, almost under her arms. And someone was tugging on the waistband of her jeans.

Tugging—pulling…

Oh, God, no…not that! Please, not that!

She had to scream—needed help. Heard a ripping sound—felt a sudden breeze on the back of her thighs.

Her jeans had been cut off!

That realization fueled Shauna’s struggle to remain conscious, enough at least for her to open her mouth—to scream.

Her hair was grabbed again, her head slammed hard against the plywood.

Now the stars weren’t only before her eyes, they surrounded her—they were her. Nothing else existed.

Except one sound.

One…familiar…sound.

A high pitched, twittering laugh. That laugh. That horrible, wretched laugh snapped Shauna back to consciousness, like a bullwhip coming out of high flight.

“Banjo!” she yelled. Shauna wanted him to know that she knew he was the one behind her.

He laughed.

She felt hands on her bare back, rough clothing rubbing against the back of her thighs. And the laughter grew louder and louder.

“Banjo, stop! It’s Shauna MacDonald. Stop!”

He began to singsong and wiggled his body against her thighs, her buttocks. “Gonna get me some—get me some—get some!”

“Shut the hell up, Banjo!” a woman’s voice shouted.

It sounded like it came from a distant place, and it was immediately followed by a metallic echo, as if her voice had bounced off metal walls—aluminum walls…

Was she trapped in a warehouse? Who was the woman?

“Hehehe, SQUAWK!” That laughter again, then, “She ain’t gonna give it up, give it up. So Banjo’s gonna take it! Take it—no give it up—I take it!” Banjo squealed like a school kid excited over Christmas.

“I said shut your goddamn mouth, you little turd!”

Shauna screamed, “Help me! Help!” If Banjo wasn’t able to hear her because he was too doped up, she had to hope that someone, somewhere would hear her screams.

“Shut that bitch up!” the woman yelled.

“Ain’t nobody gonna hear. Nobody gonna. Too far—too far in the middle of nooowheres!” Banjo sang.