Hostage to Pleasure

other woman out. The man had to be the rarest of the rare—a Traveler. Most strong telekinetics could ’port, but not even a cardinal Tk could do so with such effortless speed. Only a true teleporter. A Traveler. Designation Tk. Subdesignation V.

But where had this Traveler brought her?

She turned, hoping to see some indication of her location. But there were no roads. No buildings. No lights. Just trees, what seemed like thousands of them in every direction. A solid wall of green. Realization dawned—Vasic had clearly had to cut her teleport short in order to get back in time to rescue the other woman. As a result, she was alone in the wilderness, when she’d spent most of her life behind lab walls.

Then something growled, the sound so lethal, the hairs on the back of her neck rose in primordial warning. Those reactions, even the Psy hadn’t been able to train out of themselves. Another growl, followed by a hissing sound that froze her to the spot.

Dorian was heading back to Tammy’s after his run when the call came through. “Yeah?”

“How close are you to the Grove?” Vaughn’s voice.

“Maybe an hour at a hard run. Why?”

“Shit.” Vaughn muttered something to a third person, then came back on the line. “You’re the closest. Pickup ASAP.”

Who or what the hell was out there? The Grove was a large tract of land deep in their territory, home to feral creatures with a hunger for blood and tearing flesh. “I’m on my way.” He was already changing direction.

“You have a gun?”

“Stupid question.” He was always armed, an automatic compensation for his lack of ability to go cat.

“Hope you don’t need to use it. Run fast.” Vaughn hung up.

Dorian shoved the phone into his pocket and set a brutal pace. Since Vaughn had given him no specifics about the pickup, the target had to be obvious—either highly visible, noisy, or with a distinctive scent. He hoped to hell it was one of the latter two. Darkness had fallen over an hour ago, and, with the moon clouded over, visibility was low. His eyes were cat-sharp, but even a leopard changeling couldn’t magically find a needle in a very big haystack. A scent trail would speed things up.

Of course, that might be a moot point.

Because if it was a person out there, then he or she was in seriously deep shit. That area was home to a population of aggressive lynx. Real lynx, not changelings. They could be vicious little buggers when provoked. If the subject made that mistake, the only thing Dorian would find was a pile of bones, the flesh stripped off with bloody efficiency.

There were eyes all around her, glowing, stalking. Ashaya stood in place, going over her options for the hundredth time and coming up with the same answer—she had none. She was a Gradient 9.9 Psy, but her power was medical. She had no combat-capable abilities, not even a hint of telekinesis or paralyzing telepathy. Her Tp status was barely 1.1, just enough to maintain her link to the PsyNet.

She could attempt to attack using that paltry bit of telepathy, but even if she gained a few seconds, what could she do? She considered trying to get to the stunner in her pack. But the instant her hand moved, teeth snapped in warning. It made her wonder why they hadn’t already attacked.

She found the answer in her next scan of the area—several of the large tree trunks bore fresh claw marks. Something big had passed through here recently, leaving behind enough of a lingering presence that these small predators—judging from the height of their eyes—were hesitating. But that wouldn’t last. She was warm, living prey. They wanted her.

Think, Ashaya, she told herself, using the calm fostered by Silence. What would Amara do? The question was a stupid one, something she disregarded in the next instant. Amara had a different skill set, a different way of thinking. What did she have?

Medical. Basic telepathy. Basic psychometry. Some other passive Psy abilities. None of them useful in this situation.

The animals—cats?—were creeping closer in a stealthy whisper of claws against the dry vegetation that carpeted the forest floor.

Eliminate the psychic abilities and what did she have?

A quick mind, a body in good condition… and the genetic gift of speed.

The only problem was, the predators were faster than she was.

CHAPTER 5

Things to do… people to kill.

– Front and back of Dorian Christensen’s favorite T-shirt (gift from Talin McKade)

Dorian smelled blood on the wind moments after he entered the Grove, followed by the angry sounds of lynx fighting over something. His hands moved with lethal grace, throwing knives hitting his palms as he prepared for whatever it was he was going to find. His scent was normally enough to cow the smaller felines, but if they’d blooded a kill, they might be in an animalistic rage.

The scent teased at him, sharp, iron rich. But beneath the spray of blood lay an exotic femininity, intriguing, seductive… and cold, so damn cold. “Fuck!” Sweat rolled down his spine as he covered the remaining distance at extreme speed.

She wasn’t allowed to die, he thought, his rage a dark red flame. Not until he’d flushed this vicious hunger for her from his system. But when he tracked the scent to a small clearing, it was to discover nothing beyond the slashing aggression of the lynx and the biting iron of fresh blood—no scent of a gut ripped open or bodily wastes expelled during the panic of death. Not even an overlay of sweaty panic. Psy liked to pretend they were cold until death but he knew very well that they screamed, same as everyone else. Santano Enrique had screamed… until Dorian had sliced off his tongue.

Knives held with familiar ease, he strode into the clearing. The group of lynx turned, their snarls promising tearing pain. He waited for them to recognize him. They hesitated—long enough to stop mauling whatever it was they had under their claws. He knew what they were thinking. There was only one of him, ten of them.

He growled, letting the trapped leopard in him sound through his vocal cords. It was a growl of anger, of fury, of domination. The lynx cringed but didn’t leave. Damn. He didn’t want to kill them. This was their land as much as it was his. She was the intruder, here and in his life—in his fucking dreams. But he’d deal with his crap himself. He wasn’t going to take an easy out and stand by while she was being ripped to shreds.

He growled again, putting menace into it. Get out or die. They knew him, knew the warning would be carried through. It didn’t matter that he was latent, unable to shift into the leopard form that was his other half. No, to these creatures, he was simply another cat. He smelled like one. He ran like one. He hunted like one.

And he killed like one.

One by one, the tufted-ear felines gave disgruntled snarls and wandered off. He waited—knives in hand—until he was certain of their surrender. Then he approached the tree where they had been savaging their prey. He stopped. The concentration of smell was wrong. Freezing, he analyzed what his senses were telling him. Almost smiled. And slipped into the deepest shadows. So fast that he would’ve been a blur to the eyes watching him.

Cloaking himself in the darkness, he moved as he spoke, well aware a Psy could kill with a single targeted mental blow. “I suggest you come down unless you want me to leave you here. The blood will prove an irresistible draw to the lynx.”

Silence. Did she think he didn’t know where she was?