Sighing, I say, I don’t know. Any suggestions?
If you could even partially shift, I could help. Even just your claws? Her question makes me think. I was trying a full-body shift, but what if I could do just my paws?
Let me try, I state. What have I got to lose? Concentrating hard on just my hands, I call forth my leopard. Nothing. Undeterred, I try again. And again.
It won’t work, I finally say. Whatever’s in this collar besides the spikes is keeping me from shifting my hands into paws. I’m sorry.
Not your fault. It’s the asshole who is doing this that I’m blaming. Her snarl is ferocious and I grin. While it’s not always easy being a shifter, it’s kind of like having a friend living inside of me all the time.
He is an asshole. I hear a noise at the door and steel myself for more abuse from my captors. I’ve seen two different men so far and neither is worthy of writing home about, that’s for damn sure. When I see two people walk through, I realize that shit may be going further south than I anticipated.
“What the fuck did you hit her for? She can’t shift and heal and that’s probably going to fuck her pelt up, you fucking moron!” Douchebag One says to Douchebag Two.
“She pissed me off,” Douchebag Two replies.
“Really? That’s the best you can do? She ‘pissed me off’? Jesus, what are you, two? He’s not going to be happy about this at all. Fuck,” he grinds out, looking at me again. “We can’t afford to let her shift either because it’s not safe.”
“Why the hell not? We juice her up a bit so she can’t go all batshit crazy on us and force her to shift so she heals.”
“Haven’t you learned anything? I mean, you’re a fucking shifter yourself; do you hear yourself? We can’t, plain and simple, and you better fucking hope that when it’s time to harvest her pelt, it’s not fucked to hell,” Douchebag One states, shoving his partner.
“She’ll be fine,” Douchebag Two asserts, dismissing the first one’s comments with a flick of his wrist. Leering at me, he reaches out to touch my hair and a growl emanates from my throat. “Oh, I like them feisty,” he says, licking his lips.
Ew, just ew. I’d partially shift and slit my own throat before I’d ever let him touch me! I glare at him but don’t say a word; nope, they may have me in this room like a caged animal, but that doesn’t mean I have to talk.
I’m killing him first, my leopard snarls in my head. She’s pacing, her ears back and eyes narrow. His blood will look good staining the floor.
“Leave her be, for now. She’s losing weight and that’ll make it easier to skin her when it’s time,” Douchebag One says. “But she can’t get so weak that she isn’t able to shift.”
“Fine, I’ll give her more food. Not much more,” he says, glaring at me, “but enough so she’s not completely incapacitated when it comes time to harvest.”
They leave, locking the door behind them once again, and I’m alone with my thoughts which border on nightmarish at this point.
What am I going to do?
400
Knox
Two Weeks Later
It’s been two weeks since we realized there was an issue and so far, Aces hasn’t found a single connection. Some of the women taken used Ryde, a driving service; others used a cab. Sitting at my desk at the office where we handle our bounty hunting business, I hear the chime over the door and look at the cameras to see a brunette standing there. Sniffing, I detect that she’s a shifter, but have no clue why she would need our services. I stand and walk out to the lobby. “Can I help you?” I ask.
“Um, hi. My name is Gemma and my best friend, Jayda, has been missing for a few weeks. I’ve tried looking for her, but haven’t had any luck. The police don’t seem to want to help, so I was hoping that maybe you could?” Her eyes look hopeful, so I decide to talk to her and see what she knows.
“Follow me,” I instruct, leading her into my office. Once we’re inside and I’m sitting behind my desk, I ask, “What do you know about the last time you saw her?” Maybe she’s one of the missing women and this Gemma chick can give me some intel to pass on to Aces.
“We were at a club downtown, enjoying the live music and having some drinks, you know?” At my nod, she continues, “After a few hours, she decided to head out because the guys were getting drunker and wouldn’t stop hitting on her. She’s so beautiful.” The last is said so softly that if I wasn’t a shifter, I might have missed it. “Anyhow, she called for a Ryde driver and told me she’d see me later that week. We work out together and a new pole dancing class was starting. She didn’t show up and when I called her cell, it went straight to voicemail. I went by her apartment, but she wasn’t there and it looked like she hadn’t been in a few days at least. None of her neighbors have seen her, and I checked all the local hospitals just in case she was in an accident that night, but she’s not there either.”
“Do you have anything of hers?” I question. One of my abilities that’s over and above my shifter ones is the fact that by touching something that belongs to somebody else, I can shift into them and assimilate their last thoughts and memories. It’s helped us several times when we’ve tracked down those who wish to remain hidden.
“I’ve got her hoodie; she forgot it that night,” she replies, pulling open the biggest purse I’ve ever seen and grabbing a hot pink hoodie with a sugar skull on the
