Charlotte Boyett-Compo- Wyndsheer (20 page)

Unable to move his head, Jamie shifted his eyes toward Ordwell. The man’s hot breath was fanning along his cheek, the rubbery lips were grazing the inside of the Lycant’s ear and the fingers in his hair were tightening.

“You are going back where you belong,” Ordwell whispered. “Back where I want you.”

The kiss on his cheek made Jamie shiver involuntarily and when the scientist yanked brutally on his hair, the Lycant growled murderously low in his throat.

“Behave,” Ordwell hissed and moved back, taking no chances his prisoner might suddenly find control of his motor functions. “He’s all yours, DeLayne.”

Dr. DeLayne took Ordwell’s place to quickly and efficiently insert an IV into Jamie’s arm. As soon as the icy-cold liquid started flowing through his veins, some of the ungodly pain began to diminish. The Lycant’s muscles started to relax and the burning racing through his veins began to subside.

“He is a remarkable specimen,” DeLayne said, his gaze moving over Jamie’s bare chest. “I can see why you are so proud of him, Dr. Ordwell.”

“Yes, he is quite spectacular,” Ordwell agreed. “The most lethal of his kind and--by far--the handsomest.”

Jamie snorted at that remark.

DeLayne put a hand on the restrained man’s bare thigh and squeezed firmly. “Superb muscle tone.”

“A perfect body in every way,” Ordwell stated.

Jamie could feel DeLayne’s stare crawling over the lower portion of his body and it sickened him for he knew here was another pervert of Ordwell’s ilk. He held his breath--expecting the scientist to touch him between the legs--but DeLayne only sighed and moved away.

Ordwell smiled nastily. “Oh, he wouldn’t dare touch. He knows to whom you belong, James.”

Jerking his gaze from the doctor’s, Jamie stared up at the light. Memories of Ordwell’s soft, chubby hands roaming over him at will--poking, prodding, slipping in and out, squeezing, stroking, pulling--made the gorge rise in Jamie’s throat. Recalling how the bastard’s body felt atop his own as Jamie was pinned to the sweat and semen-soaked mattress and held there by restraints, the painful invasion of unwanted flesh thrusting feverishly inside him ripped through the Lycant like summer lightning. He was sickened by the images that refused to leave him and his flesh crawled.

“You’ll have to wait awhile, James,” Ordwell said as though he had read his prisoner’s thoughts. “Until we are back at Draeton.”

Closing his eyes to try to shut out the horrid reminiscences, Jamie tried flexing his shoulder and leg muscles to see if he had any control of them. He found he did not, but he continued to struggle against the immobility of his limbs, taking heart that he could move his hands. Willing his arms and legs to cooperate, using every ounce of whatever preternatural power he had at his disposal, he surreptitiously worked at getting them to obey.

He could not be taken back to Draeton.

He would rather die than return to that hellish place.

* * * *

Unlike his fellow Guardians who controlled the Gateways on other planets, Ad Fear Liath Mor had the power to roam around the one it controlled at will. Why that was so, it did not question, but was happy that was the case. It had traveled north to the farthest reaches of the arctic poles and as far south as the wild windswept cape where ship wrecks dotted the jagged shores. It had visited the eastern countries as well as the western climes but its home was where the Gateway to Life was located, there above the quaint little village of Lamb’s Grove. Like its siblings it had been given many names on many worlds but no matter what it was called, it was feared and treated with superstitious respect by most cultures, refused acknowledgment that it existed in others, and spoken of with laughter in only a very few.

But no matter where its kind existed, where it called home, it was the most powerful, most lethal and most tenacious of creatures. Once set upon a path, it did not waver from that path nor would it leave undone that which had to be finished.

Soaring over the mountainous landscape in search of its quarry, the Guardian strove to get its overpowering fury under control. It was enraged at the loss of the old woman and furious that a friend had been hurt and taken against his will by enemies who had invaded the Guardian’s territory, and then escaped the retribution due. Around it, the heavens split with thunder and streaked with lightning--remnants of the rage that was coursing through the big, hairy body. Winds howled at tornadic speeds around it as it flew, buffeting the huge body. Red eyes gleamed with more than a touch of madness as they scoured the night-darkened land below.

“Call to me, Wolf,”
it commanded.

It listened intently for some small whisper of sound from the throat, the mind of the Lycant but there was nothing. If the one it sought was conscious, he was where the Guardian could not pick up on his whereabouts and that concerned the beast.

“In what manner of place do they hold you, my friend?” it asked. “What kind of jail imprisons your soul?”

And then it saw the caravan of trucks and vans moving along the ribbon of road and swooped down low. Hiding its scent and presence, it dove down to peek into windows, searching for its friend, sniffing the air to catch the Lycant’s smell. Plastering itself against the glass of first one van then another, it did not find what it sought. The fancy long car with the silly looking driver did not reveal the presence of MacGivern, but it held an odor than made the creature’s nostrils quiver.

“Your enemy was in this vehicle,” it growled, thinking of the crushed body of the dead man in the ravine. “I have found those who took you from me.”

On down the line it went--plastering its face against the glass--and when it did not find the Lycant among the smaller vehicles, it knew its friend must be in the long shiny black box. It also knew there must be lead lining the walls of the box else it could have homed in on MacGivern.

Though its psychic powers could not penetrate the barrier of the lead, its massive paws could but it feared ripping the metal container open lest the one driving it crash off the mountain road and plummet into the depths of the craggy cavern below. Such a thing might harm the Lycant and that was to be avoided. Not a hair on its friend’s head must be harmed and whatever else might have been done to him would be avenged.

With extreme prejudice.

* * * *

She knew someone was following her and she tightened her fingers around the sturdy branch she’d picked up. Whoever it was made no attempt at covering his or her movements yet when she turned around to try to get a glimpse of her tracker, there was no trace of the one shadowing her.

Somewhere along the trail she’d taken a wrong turn and had been forced to backtrack. The sky was now a dark purple color as the sun sank behind the mountains but to the south, the sky was flickering with a magnificent display of fiery illumination and thunder echoed back to her though there wasn’t a trace of rain in the air. The eerie weather phenomenon was a mystery but she was grateful she hadn’t been caught in a downpour. Ahead, she could see the lights of the village so she wasn’t worried but the stealthy sounds behind her concerned her and she slipped into a thick bracket of ferns and was very still.

He moved right past her shortly thereafter, so close she could reach out and touch him if she desired. But touching him was the last thing she wanted to do. With his wild hair and rolling eyes, filthy, torn clothing, and skittish manner, she knew this must be the agent who had been roaming the hills since that first night. He was mumbling to himself as he stopped and listened, and his dirty face crinkled with confusion. He shifted from one foot to the other, wrung his hands then whimpered like a lost child. It was that sound that touched her heart.

“I’m over here,” she said softly and even as low as her voice had been, the poor man jumped and flinched, slamming himself against a tree, shivering from head to toe as his wide eyes locked in on the place where she stood. “It’s all right.”

He shook his head. “No, no, no, no, no,” he repeated.

“The Guardian didn’t hurt you and I won’t either,” she said and took a step out of her concealment. “Do you want to go down to the village with me?”

He turned his head and seemed to be studying the flickering lights below. He whined, reminding her of a scared little puppy. In that low, keening sound was a cry for help, for comfort and as his wounded eyes returned to her, she felt her heart break.

“We can get something eat and some warm clothing,” she said. The mountain air was crisp and the strong wind was tugging at her hair and clothing, making her eyes water and her teeth chatter. “A hot cup of coffee would be great right about now, wouldn’t it?” She took another step toward him.

He nodded warily, looked around them as though he expected someone to jump out of the bushes at him.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

“Groves,” he muttered and sniffed.

“That’s right. I was Agent Groves.” Another step and a gentle smile. “What I really need is a shot of tequila. Whatcha think?”

He licked his lips then put up a grimy hand to wipe at his mouth. “Scotch,” he whispered.

“Single malt?” she asked and held her hand out to him.

He looked down at her hand in the fading light and seemed to be considering. When at last he finally reached out his own hand--soiled at it was--she threaded her fingers through his.

“Let’s blow this pop stand, okay?” she asked.

“Lost,” he said.

“Yes, I know you were,” she said. “But you’re found now.”

“So lost,” he repeated on a long sigh.

“You’re with me,” she told him.

She tugged gently at his hand and he fell into step beside her. As they walked, she kept up a calming conversation. She told him about Jamie and what a good man he was, how he had saved her life. She did not ask him to speak, to give her any information about himself. At that moment she thought he needed comfort and acceptance, not interrogation. The closer they came to the village, the more tense his grip on her hand, the slower his footsteps, so she stopped and looked up at him.

“Everyone needs a little help from time to time, you know?” she asked. “That’s what friends are for.” Her eyes held his. “I was an agent. You are an agent and ....”

“Were,” he said then shook his head emphatically. “No more.”

“I know where you’re coming from,” she said. “But you know what?”

He looked at her quizzically.

“I’m starving. Let’s put a move on before I faint and you have to carry me the rest of the way.”

His lips twitched though his eyes were still wary and the focus not quite right. “I’d carry you,” he said.

“I’m sure you would.”

“Hungry, too,” he admitted and this time it was him who tugged at her hand to lead her to civilization.

Chapter Eleven

One by one, from the last van to the one following directly behind the big long rolling black box, the Guardian casually and without detection plucked each vehicle from the highway and carried it to the Gateway, dropping it through with a wicked laugh before streaking back to the convoy to snatch up another. Like a greedy child hiding its toys, Ad Fear Liath Mor moved with such speed and sureness, those soldiers inside the vans were unaware of their predicament until they felt themselves falling through an empty, lightless void that seemed to go on forever and ever. No frantic transmissions from their radios could pierce the chasm into which they’d been thrust. No screams of panic or cries for help would ever be heard. Fifteen vehicles--six troop transports, eight armored vans, and the black stretch limo simply blinked out of existence.

When nothing trailed the long black box, the creature flew ahead of the line of vehicles and began to allow the concealment of its alarm pheromones to slowly escape into the air. It knew the first human to scent the chemical would shift uncomfortably in his seat then begin to feel an inexplicable unease, restlessness, wariness, a small touch of nervousness. That nervousness would seep over into the man beside him then the one behind him. As the chemical spread and its intensity increased, agitation would start then meld over into apprehension and disquiet that rubbed raw the nerves. With the further saturation of the pheromone, heartbeats would increase and sweat would break out over the men’s bodies. An icy touch would crawl down their spines and they would begin turning to look behind them, searching for whatever had caused their anxiety. That anxiety would spread like spilled ink on a clear white sheet of parchment and stain the human’s dispositions with tight, uncontrollable fear. Every turn in the road might hold an obstacle that would suddenly loom up in the sweep of the headlights. Rocks might at that very moment be readying themselves to tumble down in a deadly avalanche from the high cliffs beside the road. A crater might well have developed in the pavement into which the unsuspecting driver might run. The drivers--in turn--would begin to ease up on the gas, to slow down in anticipation of trouble coming their way.

Laughing to itself as it hovered above the lead van as though it were a genie out of a bottle the Guardian began to send subliminal messages to the nine men behind the wheels of the vehicles. It whispered caution into ears and drove seeds of doubt deep into unsuspecting minds.

The convoy’s speed dropped from 65 mph to 55 mph.

And then the fog--thick and milky white--came out of nowhere, rolling down the steep cliffs of the mountain to hide the lead van from the one behind it.

The van disappeared.

“Where the hell did this fucking fog come from?” the driver of the second van in line asked, leaning forward to look up through the glass of his windshield.

That van disappeared, as well.

“Team leader, what’s the word on this fog?” the soldier riding shotgun in the semi asked into his microphone but only static came back to him. He glanced worriedly at the driver then tried another channel. “AAV 2, do you copy?” When he received no answer from the second van, he tried the others but only a grinding white noise was all he could pick up.