Page 97 of Tested
He stands, and my heart tries to jump through my chest. “Be careful,” I whisper, and he squeezes my shoulder on his way out the door. After two heartbeats the rest of us follow along. I’m on my knees with my nose pressed to the one remaining window by the door. Lydia’s bracing herself with a hand on my back, watching the proceedings, and Sheena’s got the top section of glass.
Trajan stands alone on the front walkway. The loudspeaker repeats its demand for Connor to come out, the phrasing so precise and so similar to the earlier announcements I wonder if they’re a recording.
“We have a request,” Trajan says, his voice echoing across the yard.
There’s some static and a couple of random bumps, as if people are tussling over the microphone.
“Request denied,” a voice says, but it’s a different speaker than whoever’s been ordering Connor to come out. I might have said the new voice was Smith, but lower pitched and harsh.
Trajan stands there, some six feet away from the house, and waits. There’s another crackle and a thump, and the original speaker returns. “What do you want?”
That’s our cue. Sheena and Connor walk out together and take their places on either side of Trajan. Lydia, flanked by her weres, is next. She takes a position to Trajan’s left and her wolves spread out behind all of us. Even Joey makes it out, in his snake form, draped over the shoulders of the young were who’s been with him.
Alone in the hall, I shift, and my wolf strolls out like we’re all going on a moonlit walk. I take my seat at Connor’s feet, and he rests a hand on my head.
There’s a low growl, deep enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. Behind the command post there’s a moment of confusion, and then there’s Stone.
He’s only half troll, which means he’s only seven and a half feet tall instead of nine feet, and he’s built like Jason Momoa on steroids. Between the black leather and the throwing stars strapped to each wrist, he damn near takes my wolf’s breath away.
Who knew Trajan’s clean-up buddy cleaned up that good?
Behind Stone is an array of shifters, some on two legs and others on four. There must be thirty in all, easily as many as the SWAT members. Our team might not have body armor and fierce black masks, but you wouldn’t know it based on the SWAT members’ response. The stink of fear rises so far and so fast it almost gags me.
“As I said before,” Trajan says, his voice cutting through the miasma of murmuring anxiety among the SWAT team members. “We have a request. We want to talk to Smith before this goes any further.”
An argument ensues among people who are just out of range of the microphone. The only thing that comes through clearly is an especially potent, “No, I will not,” from someone who sounds like Smith.
A car pulls up, closer than they should have gotten, given the circumstances. My wolf makes note of the arrivals, and apparently so does Smith, because he grabs the microphone and demands that Connor meet him in the center of the yard.
Connor looks weary, his leather jacket scuffed and worn, his shoulders at half-mast. Still, he takes hold of Trajan’s hand and the three of us share a smile. Well, they smile and I yip in agreement.
Then Connor steps away from us, heading for where Smith is waiting.
He stops just outside of arm’s length. “What do you want?” Connor’s voice is clear and calm, his stance firm.
“You think you can frame this on me, don’t you. I know you killed those women, and I can prove it.”
Something in Smith’s voice grabs my wolf’s attention, something wild and dangerous. I crouch, ready to spring.
“I didn’t kill anyone, Smith. You did.”
“Prove it,” Smith says, and in a flash, the man is gone. Instead, his head is that of an enormous shark, his mouth open wide to show off a double row of razer-sharp teeth. His shoulders broaden, the skin gone smooth and grey, and he’s holding a dagger in each hand. “Take me down and I’ll confess,” the shark-man says, and I instinctively growl. The rest of the supes around me surge forward a step or two, ready to jump in.
Trajan grabs my ruff. “Don’t even think about it, puppy. If any of us move, those SWAT idiots are going to start shooting.”
The shark-man makes a move toward Connor, who steps aside. The shark-man takes a swing, the blade slicing through the air. Connor dodges, but not quite fast enough. The blade catches the hem of his jacket and punches a hole through the leather.
Backing away, Connor leads the shark-man around the yard. His hands are raised, palm out, as if to show he doesn’t intend to fight. I wonder if his aim is to exhaust the creature and then make a move, but unless he’s got some trick hidden in a pocket somewhere, I’m not sure what hismovewill be.
Connor’s doing fine – he even manages to knock one of the shark’s daggers to the ground – until the creature lunges twice in quick succession. Connor loses his footing and goes down in the grass. I howl, and Trajan’s grip on my ruff grows tighter.
“Don’t do it, David,” he says, although I sense his desire to leap into the fray, too.
Sheena gives a war cry, one echoed by Stone, and Smith has to know if he does anything to Connor, the rest of us will be on him. Still, the shark-man raises his remaining blade in both hands, pausing dramatically over Connor’s supine form.
And with a terrible scream, the shark-creature leaps away from Connor.
Who’s not Connor anymore. In his place is a dark figure, taller and broader than Connor had been, with no discernable facial features.
