“No, he’s not.” And the truth was that he might shoot Jace even if I cooperated. I dropped the crowbar, my gaze locked on Dean’s sneer.
“Good girl.” He jogged down the steps, his aim steadily trained on the center of Jace’s chest. His shadow stretched across the grass beneath the porch light, not quite hiding the vicious grin he aimed at Jace. “I bet she takes the top, doesn’t she? A girl like that has to be in control all the time, or she just can’t have any fun, right?” Dean’s sneer found me again, his gaze tracing the scar he’d left on my cheek, then wandering lower. “But once I put her down, she’s damn well gonna stay there.”
He reached for my arm, but I jerked away. My fist slammed into his jaw. Dean growled. He backhanded me with his empty left hand, and I staggered backward, determined not to fall. “I will kill you.”
Dean laughed, and his gaze never left mine. He reached for my arm again, and when I started to step back, he raised the gun, aiming at Jace’s face. “Think very carefully.”
“Faythe, no…” Jace growled, right fist clenched at his side, the claws on his left paw sheathing and unsheathing over and over again.
“It’s okay,” I said, and when Dean grabbed my arm that time, I let him, even though my skin crawled. “I’ll kill him, then meet you right back here.” Because Jace couldn’t fight with a gun trained on him, and I stood a better shot of taking Dean out without the rest of his men around. “No worries.”
Dean laughed and glanced at Jace. “Oh, no, you can totally worry. And in a few minutes, and you can all hear her scream.”
Owen growled and Michael snarled, advancing on the toms who faced them.
Dean pulled me up the first step, still aiming at Jace. “Kill the toms. Leave the bitch to me.”
Cats all over the yard burst into motion. Snarls and hisses rang out like a violent chorus, a fitting soundtrack to accompany my waking nightmare. The scent of blood blossomed on the air, and I clenched my jaw against a scream as Dean hauled me up the steps by one arm.
“No!” Jace shouted, as two toms advanced on him.
Dean shoved the gun into my spine, and Jace burst into action. He swung at the tom on his right, swiping his clawed hand across an exposed flank. The tom howled, and Jace dropped into a roll. He came up with my crowbar, but then Dean dragged me over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind us. I could still hear the fight, but I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see who was winning, or who might be dying.
And I couldn’t fight Dean while he still had the pistol.
“Walk, bitch.” He shoved his gun into my side and pulled me down the hall with him. “What’s with the tape?” He flicked the orange flagging tied to my arm, but I only glared at him. The thunderbirds were our proverbial ace in the hole, and I wasn’t going to tip him off.
Not that it mattered. Before I could come up with a believable lie—or even a smart-ass, obvious one—an avian screech split the night outside, and Dean’s head jerked up. He shoved the gun harder into my ribs and I flinched while he glanced down the hall.
“Kent, take your group outside. The bitch brought air support.”
My father’s office door swung open—it had already been ajar—and Kenton Pierce stepped into the hall, followed by five toms in human form, all carrying guns. The shock of seeing them in my father’s private space was so traumatic that I almost didn’t notice how strange the pistols looked. How long…
Silencers. Shit! The birds would never know what hit them if they couldn’t hear the guns being fired.
The men raced past us toward the back door, all armed except for Kent, who probably hadn’t had time for target practice yet. The moment the back door opened, I shouted, “Jace, they have silencers!” Then all I could do was listen as Dean pushed me toward my own room, boiling with rage on the inside. I had to get the gun out of his hands.
Kent hung back when he saw where we were headed, and a spark of hope blazed through my mounting fear.
“Don’t you bad guys ever get tired of the same old routine? You threaten rape, I kick your ass, and evil is defeated again. Couldn’t we shake things up? How ’bout you try to smother me with my fluffy pink pillow instead?”
Kent froze the minute he heard the R-word. “Colin…”
Dean ignored him. “Sounds like fun. Unfortunately, Malone wants you alive.”
Kent jogged toward us as Dean shoved me through my own doorway. I went down on my knees, but was up in an instant and spun to face him again, frozen with the gun still aimed at my chest.
My stomach churned, and bile rose into my throat. “You’re sick.” I backed away from him, desperate for a chance to draw my knife. But I couldn’t do that until he either turned around or got really close.
“Colin.” Kent Pierce stepped into the doorway, looking almost as sick as I felt. “Don’t do this.”
Dean shrugged, without ever taking his attention or his aim from me. “She brought this on herself, and no one’s going to care if I break her in.”
“I care,” Kent said. That made two of us. Kent glanced from me to Dean, and I held my breath, waiting for Dean to succumb to the distraction. “I’m ordering you to…not do this.”
Oh, yeah. Malone picked a real badass to run his puppet regime…. But I’d take what I could get.
“I don’t work for you,” Dean said, and I nearly screamed in frustration when he stalked slowly toward me, evidently unbothered by the fly in his ointment.
“Fine. We’ll see what Cal has to say about it.”
And finally Dean froze. His forehead furrowed, and his empty hand clenched into a fist. “Cal’s gonna say this!” Dean whirled in a scary-fast roundhouse. His foot hit Kent’s head. I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled out the folding knife. Kent flew back and smacked his skull on my door frame. I pressed the button and the blade popped out of the handle. Kent went down like a sandbag, out for the count.Damn.
I lunged for Dean as he turned. He swung the gun up. I sliced his right biceps with the knife. He yelled and slapped his free hand over the wound.
I kicked, high and fast, and the gun flew from his hand. I let go of the knife, dropped to my knees, and lunged for the pistol with my one human hand. Dean stepped on my Shifted paw and kicked the gun under my bed, putting his full weight on my arm. I screamed and jerked my paw free. He kicked me in the stomach, cutting off my air for several precious seconds.
Before I could suck in my next breath, he was on me, crushing me. He pinned my Shifted arm to the floor and ripped my shirt half-open. My human fist slammed into his ribs. His smashed into my cheek. Pain exploded in my face. I thrashed, trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy. I couldn’t move my legs.
Dean ripped the rest of my shirt. I stretched for the knife I’d dropped, trying to scoot sideways while the room swam around me. I made it several inches before he reached for the waistband of my jeans.
“No!” I threw another punch at his face. Blood dripped from his split lip. My pulse whooshed in my ears and I clawed at his fingers with my human hand, trying to free my Shifted paw. His blood ran, slick beneath my nails. I grabbed his thumb and pulled. The digit snapped backward.
Dean howled, and let go of my paw to cradle his injured hand. I sucked in air, and the room surged back into focus, colors so crisp they were almost painful. Dean punched me with his good hand. I raked my cat paw across his stomach, ripping through cotton and flesh at the same time, silently dedicating the blow to my father.
Dean screeched and clutched his stomach. Blood soaked us both, hot and sticky. I slashed him again. He shrieked and fell off me. I rolled onto my knees and shoved my paw into the gore his stomach had become, tearing loose great chunks of soft tissue.
Dean screamed beneath me. His eyes glazed with pain, and still I tore at him, rupturing soft bits I couldn’t identify. There was nothing else in that moment. No war. No pain. No loss. There was only Dean, and blinding rage, and the blessed numbness that came with the bloodlust I’d succumbed to. The room was made of his blood, and I was made to spill it.
“Faythe?”
Snarling, I whirled at the sound of my name. Kent stood in the doorway, clutching the frame for support. I leaped up, hissing. He blinked. Then he was gone. His footsteps thundered as he screamed down the hallway.
I turned back to Dean and surveyed the damage with an odd detachment, part survival instinct, part bloodlust afterglow. His torso was shredded. The carpet was soaked in his blood. It squished beneath my shoes. A loop of his intestines stretched across the floor, where I’d thrown it.
I backed away slowly, and bloody footprints followed me, pressed into clean carpet by my own boots. Dean would never touch me again. He’d never fire another gun.
One down, one to go…
I turned toward the door and caught my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. My face was splattered with blood, my hair tangled with it. My bra and torn shirt were soaked, my bare skin slick and red with it. Bits of gore clung to my jeans.
But a horrible, atonal shriek from outside ripped through my encroaching shock, and reality slammed into place, so sharp it could not be denied.
War. My war. My friends and family fighting for their lives.
I wiped my hands on my jeans, then snatched my knife from the floor, closed it, and shoved it into my pocket, then ran into the hall. I slid a bit on the tile, my boot soles still slick with blood. Then I raced for the back door and shoved the screen open.