Page 28 of Soulmates
Hemoves past my line of sight. The only sounds are the soft moan of a breeze through the evergreens, the crackle of grit under his shoes, and the heavy throb of my heart. The door handle jiggles, and I twitch, despite my efforts to stay calm. I only have to shoot if someone comes through the door. I raise the shotgun. Really, I could go either way. I don’t like killing people, but right now I pretty much only trust the vampire and the Amazon.
Shit. There’s a bad joke in there somewhere.
A series of clicks, and the handle turns. Despite my Fluevogs, the urge to shift comes close to wrestling away my control.
I raise the shotgun, slow, widening my stance, channeling my inner Black Widow. The door swings open. I sight down the barrel.
“Trajan?” The voice is soft, husky, warm where it brushes over my skin. I don’t respond, my focus balanced between the man in the doorway and the dark closet door.
“Hey, it’s me.”
Me? Who? What the hell?
He steps into the room, and though I may regret it, I don’t shoot. I can tell when he sees me. His posture stills, hardens, and he reaches for his inner pocket.
“Don’t.” I whisper the word, but he does stop.
“David? David Collins?”
I stay silent, busy cataloguing every detail. His smoky scent. Indeterminate eye color. Hipster beard. Curly brown hair. “Brown” isn’t quite right, but it’s too dark to get more specific. His single-breasted suit jacket fits him well, and he’s wearing it over jeans. So, money, but casual about it. I’d need a better look at his shoes to confirm that impression.
“You two need to move.” He shifts his weight, keeping his hands where I can see them. “I don’t know how yet, but this place has been made. When Trajan gets up, you need to go.” He steps out onto the porch. “I’d offer you a ride, but…”
I growl in response.
“That’s what I figured. Just tellmoshiorghráwhat I said,”—he fades into the darkness—“and I’ll see you both back in the city.”
By the time Trajan opens the closet door, I’ve changed out of my dress and Fluevogs and am wearing an old pair of sweatpants and nothing else. All my stuff is packed. I’d have packed his, too, if he hadn’t locked it in the closet like a paranoid bastard. I’d also sent Sheena a one-word text.
Tuna.
It’s the code word we’d agreed on for emergencies, and absolutely not a slam on her sexual orientation.
Trajan comes into the cabin’s main room, his gaze darting between my bare chest and the suitcase by the door. “What’s up?”
“We had a visitor.” I stuff the last bag of blood in his cooler and zip it shut. “Someone who smells like smoke and called you mah heergrah,or something like that.”
“Mo shiorghrá.”Trajan uses a more guttural accent and his always-pale skin turns sheet white. His eyes are sleepy, his hair is hanging at angles, and he’s about as cuddly as a teddy bear in bondage gear.
“Someone you know?”
He doesn’t really need to answer. The crease in his brow and the brackets around his mouth speak of loss, sadness. Whoever this guy was, Trajan knew him and probably loved him. I stifle the whimper of jealousy before it can really get started. “He said we needed to leave, that some unspecified person or persons knew we were here.”
Trajan nods, still looking like he’s seen a ghost.
“I packed everything into my one suitcase”—actually a duffel bag smaller than the one I take with me when I go to the gym—“and if you can carry the gear, I’ll shift so I can move faster.” I’m not exactly sure where we’ll go, but as soon as Trajan comes out of his little funk, we can work that part out.
“I’ll go get my…”
He’s headed forthe closetwhenthe shooting starts.
Glass shatters and I hit the floor.
Hard.
Trajan crawlstoward meon his belly. There are voices outside, yelling in a language I don’t speak. Spanish? Swahili? I don’t even know. What I do know is that if anything happens to my Fluevogs, a bad situation will turn into utter shite.
“I hear at least two of them,” I whisper.
