Page 29 of Waifs And Strays
I stepped into the room. Black had been right: there was a lingering scent of mothballs and clothing that was long due a good wash, although the smell of vetiver was also stronger here. I took in the neatly rolled sleeping bag, the small hurricane lamp beside it and the battered backpack, then I spotted the small stain by the window. Blood. I was certain of it.
I stopped wasting time and strode towards it. If the blood was fresh enough, there was a chance that I could match it to the blood that had been in Nick’s room and I’d have this damned wolf bang to rights. I’d wait for his return and find out what he’d done to Nick – or at least what he’d done with Nick’s body.
I peered at the stain. There was no doubt it was blood but its presence wouldn’t help me because it was too old. It had dried into the wooden floorboards and, judging by its colour, had been there since before Nick’s kidnapping.
Obviously that didn’t clear the ginger wolf – if anything, it made me more suspicious. Few people in Coldstream allowed themselves to bleed copiously, and even fewer neglected to clean up their own bloodstains because no substance contained more power than blood.
I already knew that Ginger Shane wasn’t stupid, but he was certainly reckless. He probably hadn’t expected to be traced back here, which also made him a fool. I was starting to think that my suspicions were correct and I’d found my kidnapper – but there was still no sign of Nick.
I angled my dagger to scrape off a sample of the blood fortesting but I’d barely started when I sensed someone behind me. There was no heavy breathing, no tell-tale creak or footstep, and the smell in the fusty room didn’t alter, but there was a shifting of molecules and a feeling deep in my gut born from years of experience.
Ginger Shane was behind me and he was preparing to attack.
I didn’t turn around, and I didn’t pause or tense. This wasn’t my first rodeo; in fact, one of my first assignments back when I’d been a baby killer had been similar. I’d been sent to dispatch a nasty druid to the grave but he’d been aware that several people were targeting him. His home was impregnable and I could have waited months before I had the chance to get him alone so I played on his ego instead.
When he was alone he wouldn’t have spat on a kitten if it had been on fire, but in public he liked to pretend that he was a gentleman. I tracked him to Edinburgh where he was meeting with some political bigwigs who he was trying to impress.
I had dressed in my shortest skirt and a see-through top, tottered around on sky-high heels and fallen in a graceless tumble in the street in front of him. He’d come to help me, keen to show his inclination to be of service to helpless young females. As soon as he reached for my sprawled body, I twisted my hand and stabbed him in the gut with a corkscrew blade.
It had been an effective feint and I was up and away before his body hit the pavement and his companions realised what had happened. I’d received a decent bonus for that kill; if I could pull off a similar feat now, the resulting pay-off could be even greater.
As soon as I felt the brush of air against the nape of my neck, indicating that the werewolf was about to make a killing blow, I sprang up and turned in mid-air. I caught a glimpse of a shockedface and an iron crowbar as I adjusted my blade and slashed at the hand holding it. Ginger Shane had no choice but to stop his attack, but unfortunately he didn’t drop the weapon and he recovered from my defence far quicker than I’d anticipated.
He grunted then kicked with his left foot before swinging the crowbar with his right hand. I managed to dodge and stay upright, but his foot caught my calf and there was a flash of searing pain in my leg.
I jabbed my dagger at his neck. I didn’t want to kill the bastard or knock him out, more’s the pity; I needed him to talk so I needed to be more careful than usual. The tip of my dagger scraped his skin and his nostrils flared.
I knew exactly what he was thinking. ‘Yeah,’ I told him. ‘It’s coated with poison.’
He snarled and swung the crowbar again, this time catching my shoulder. It hurt like bejesus but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me wince. I’d had plenty of practice at swallowing pain and I could pretend to be unhurt, at least for long enough to bring him to his knees.
‘It won’t kill you,’ I told him, ‘but it will attack your limbs and weaken you.’
I scored his cheek so that blood welled up to dribble down his skin and mingle with his coarse stubble. The dagger wasn’t really poisoned – too much could go wrong with a poisoned blade and only the inexperienced bothered with such idiocies. That was why I had suspected Quack’s blade was poisoned; I knew of more people who’d inadvertently killed themselves using them than had killed their targets. No, I was banking on the power of suggestion.
Ginger Shane danced to my left and bared his teeth. ‘I guess that I’m immune because I feel absolutely fine,’ he said in a Scottish burr. He proved his point by hefting thecrowbar towards my head. I ducked but the iron tip still caught the back of my skull. Agonising pain jarred through me.
I gritted my teeth and fought on. Switching the dagger to my left hand, I twisted it towards his forearm and sliced expertly through his flesh. He hissed with pain and pulled away but he didn’t withdraw. Instead he moved his crowbar from his right to his left hand. I wasn’t the only ambidextrous one, then.
He smashed its tip into my shoulder. As I staggered back, I met his eyes and nodded to acknowledge his skill. Ginger Shane grinned then came at me again but this time his body language telegraphed his plans.
Before he could slam it into my stomach, I dropped my dagger and grabbed the crowbar, pulling it out of his hands. He stooped, obviously planning to reach for my fallen blade, but I kicked it away and used the crowbar to whack him hard between his shoulder blades. He collapsed at my feet.
‘Shit,’ he wheezed – then he lifted his head and bit my ankle.
This time I was surprised and pained enough to yell aloud. ‘What the fuck?’ I kicked, more from reflex than design. I could have killed him with that move but at the last beat I pulled my foot back to avoid serious damage.
I was pissed off, though, seriously pissed off. ‘I know you have an animal’s soul, Shane, but biting is bad. Didn’t your mother teach you that?’
He mumbled something and I cupped a hand to my ear. ‘What was that?’
Ginger Shane raised his head and sent me an angry glare. He spat a globule of blood onto the wooden floorboards, adding to the existing bloodstains. ‘I said,’ he repeated with considerable malice, ‘who the hell is Shane?’
I stared at him. ‘You.’
He returned my stare. ‘My name is Thane,’ he bit out.
Oh. Damned coffee-shop name scribblers. ‘Thane? What kind of name is that?’
