Daemon’s Mark by Caitlin Kittredge (web ebook reader .TXT) 📕

I heard noise behind me as the heavies fumbled for their weapons, their eyes wide with shock. Rostov fumbled for something in his waistband and I beat him to it with my free hand, grabbing a Browning pistol and tossing it over my shoulder. “Here’s how it’s going to go,” I growled. “You’re going to tell me who killed Lily Dubois and why. Then I’m going to arrest you and drag you out of here, and everyone is going to be happy. Except you, because you’ll be rotting in jail for twenty-five to life.”

Rostov laughed wetly under my hand, his face turning purple-red under my ministrations. “Even if you live to walk out of this place … you think the FBI will let me serve a day in prison? I will turn on my bosses and I will go into Witness Protection. I will retire to someplace like Tucson, where the sun is warm and the women wear halter tops, and street cops like you will never be able to touch me again.”

I used my were strength to leverage Rostov out of his chair and slammed him into the wall of the freezer, hard enough to shake the calendar of topless women circa 1991 loose. “That day? It’s not today. Now tell me about Lily.”

“Nikolai…” said the largest of his buddies. I turned on him with a snarl.

“You shoot at me, you hit your boss,” I said. “We’re having a private conversation. Shoo.” They were scared enough by my eyes and fangs to be hesitant, but for how much longer?

“Go,” Rostov croaked. “Let us speak.” When his goons retreated, he turned his eyes back to me. “I will tell you nothing. You’re just a whore like all the rest of them,” he grunted. “A whore who doesn’t know her business.”

Black closed in on my vision, my animal side taking over with a vicious snarl that ripped out of my throat. I shook Rostov like a rag doll, impressing myself with my own strength. “Call me a whore one more time.”

Dimly, I realized that I was losing control, lack of sleep and stress and rage creating a perfect storm in my hindbrain that had allowed the were to rip free of the tight harness I’d maintained on it since I’d phased and ripped a murderer to shreds, nearly two years ago.

But I can’t say, in that moment, that I really cared. I just wanted Rostov to pay for all of my frustration and anger and for the visions of Lily that danced in front of my eyes.

It made me sloppy. Rostov wriggled an arm free and drove a fist into my gut. He was, as I’d predicted, disproportionately strong and I felt all of my air sing out of me.

I sagged, my grip on his throat loosening, and Rostov grabbed me by the scruff and tossed me like one would a bag of garbage. I went backward over a pile of pallets, landing in a heap.

Shit, Wilder. Get yourself together. Rostov came over to me, his feet in my field of vision, cheap shiny patent loafers that I could see my startled face in. He picked me up again. I struggled, but after the rush of the were it was a pitiful fight. I was disoriented and the animal in me was panicking while the cop in me was watching the whole thing with a resigned sigh.

This was why there are procedures. If you go off half-cocked, you just end up on the floor, getting beat to shit by a mob enforcer with terrible taste in footwear.

Rostov gave a grunt, and breathed in my ear: “Whore.” Then he heaved me away from him, and I went through the freezer door, plastic sheeting shredding around me. I landed in a cutting room, with long metal tables, rusty hydraulic scissors hanging from hoses, knives and meat hooks piled in the sinks along one wall.

The three heavies came after me, their steps deliberate. They gathered in a half-circle, looking down, waiting for Nikolai’s order as patiently as Rottweilers trained to attack. I gave them a weak smile. “How’s it going, fellas? You get good dental in this line of work?”

Rostov brushed off his hands. “She’s a filthy, disrespectful cop. Anton, deal with her. You two, get back to the count and don’t let me find it fucking short tonight, eh?”

Anton, the one who’d been staring at me with such intensity, came over and got me up, even though my legs wobbled. The other two retreated, opaque plastic whispering shut after them like a shroud. Anton put me in a police hold with remarkable efficiency and shoved me down onto the cutting table, grabbing my legs and laying me out flat like I weighed nothing.

“Oh, good, torture,” I said. “You in the secret police or something before you came to the bright lights of America to seek your fortune?”

Anton grunted. “Shut your mouth.”

He went to a row of metal equipment lockers and pulled on a plastic apron stained dark purple with animal blood, and heavy gloves, never taking his eyes from me or giving me a chance to be sneaky. This whole situation couldn’t have telegraphed body disposal any louder if there were bright flashing lights.

So this was it. This was where they’d find me, days later, when someone finally retraced my last steps. If they found me at all.

“You women are all the same,” Anton said, reaching into his waistband. “Putting your business where it should never be.” I heard the click of a pistol’s safety coming off. “Turn your head,” Anton ordered. “Away from me.”

I twisted my neck around so he’d have to look me in the eye. “No.”

Anton snarled, and I saw with shock that he had twin fangs growing from his top row of teeth. Another were who didn’t smell like a were. What was this, my lucky fucking day?

“Don’t look at me, bitch,” he ordered again, and cuffed me in the jaw,