Cry Wolf (Wolves of Angels Rest #7)(31)

Celestial images were popular tattoos, she argued with herself. Of all the monsters caged in old warehouses, any number of them might have sun or moon tattoos, right?

But Diesel had told her he was going after bad guys. These were definitely bad guys.

Hope flared as quickly and as sickeningly as the despair had, and Willow knew she couldn’t let either one control her. She had to think for herself, not wait to be rescued. Because she couldn’t stand the thought Danny might end up in the next cage over.

By the time she finished her third exhaustive—and pointless—search of her seven-by-seven cell, the narrow row of windows at the ceiling of the warehouse had started to turn gray.

It was morning.

Diesel had said he and his friends were attacking at night.

She had one day to get herself out of here, to stop Diesel from putting himself at risk. At least her jitters were keeping her warm. Too warm, almost. She pressed her sweaty forehead against the cold steel bar and closed her eyes as she slid dejectedly to the floor.

The daylight beyond the glass far above brightened, and the creatures in the cages around her grew alert. There wasn’t any more movement than before, but somehow she sensed a sharpening of awareness.

A distant clang made her stiffen too.

After a tense wait, a figure appeared at the end of the row of cages pushing a squeaking box. More clanging. Willow strained to see what was going on, but she recoiled at the sound of a ferocious growl.

A harder clang and a yelp made her cringe.

“Wait for it,” snapped the man. He pushed the cart onward.

In the cage next to her, the beast moved back and crouched. The man paused in front of its cage and pulled out a long, narrow aluminum foil pan from the cart. Like he’d been baking bread? He pushed the pan between the bars; it screeched against the steel, making her wince.

“Yeah, you better wait,” the man grumbled.

He turned to Willow’s cage.

She rushed to the door. “Help me,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going on. There’s been a mistake—”

The furious crackle of a hotshot cattle prod against the bar sent her stumbling back, her heels catching on the floor bars.

“I said wait for it.” The man didn’t look at her as he slid a pan between her bars.

Willow held her hands out. “I don’t know what’s happening. But I’m not…” She swallowed. “What is this place? Who are you? Why am I here?”

For a moment, she thought he was going to walk away. “Wait for Professor Kurtz,” he said without looking at her. He strode away, the wheels on the cart almost shrieking with the speed of his retreat.

She rushed to the door. “Wait,” she called through the bars. “Let me out. This isn’t right.”

The creature in the cage beside her coughed.

Silence fell. Another distant clang told her the jailor had departed.

Shaken, she looked down at the pan by her bare foot.

Not a fresh-baked loaf of bread. Raw meat.

The stink of it made her retch, and she clamped her hand over her belly.

But it wasn’t entirely horror. Some part of her told her to eat, to keep up her strength because she would need it.

But she couldn’t eat raw meat. She was a medium-rare girl.

Although at the moment she was feeling pretty well done for.

She sank to a crouch on the floor, her hand covering her mouth, whether to stop herself form crying or from eating, she wasn’t sure.

A low whuffling sound made her lift her head.

The monster in the other cage was watching her. Now that the light was better, she thought instantly of Diesel’s old Wolfman shirt. The hairy, distorted features of that movie monster had been meant to evoke an unnatural horror and ugliness. This beast, for all its unfamiliar shape, was almost elegant in its brutality, like a grizzly bear forced upright. Heavy muscles rippled under its pelt, and the yellow eyes flashed with more intelligence than seemed possible.

Watching it the whole time, she took the loaf pan and shoved it through the bars between them. The aluminum foil skidded on the dusty floor, but it got close enough.

A clawed hand jabbed between the bars, though the beast’s forearm was too thick to emerge far. It snagged the pan and grabbed the rough ball of chuck.

Willow looked away as it jammed the meat between its enormous incisors.

She wasn’t that, no matter what these crazy people seemed to think. This Professor Kurtz guy was going to be doing a lot of explaining.

At least she hoped he would.



***



Diesel was in the rear seat of the SUV, trying not to get a concussion with each bump over the rocky road, when his cell chimed with a text.

She’s gone.

He called Betsy immediately, holding his breath until he caught the signal.

“What happened?” he barked.

“Just got to the house. She left a note that she had to go back to Vegas.”

Diesel’s brain spun like the SUV tires struggling for traction. Gone for good?

Worse, her route was too damn close.

While dozens of oblivious drivers undoubtedly passed the decommissioned army base every day, it wasn’t on a day like this, in the midst of a clandestine war.

All this time he wanted to get closer to her, and now he had to pray she was hundreds of miles away.

“I don’t have her number,” he said raggedly.