Pretty Little Lion by Suleikha Snyder
18
When Elijah awoke, it was to the insistent alert of text messages and an empty bed. Both raised his alarm. Meghna’s done a bunk. She’s gone. You sodding idiot, he cursed himself even as he thumbed through Jackson’s messages about how Finian had brought Octavio Estrada in for questioning and thus far the man had been uncooperative. And by the way, why aren’t you picking up your messages, you asshole? He shot off a rude reply to that line of inquiry as he rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. There was a Post-it note there, next to the logical place where his feet would fall. Looking for food. Not AWOL.–M. The relief that coursed through him in that minute was ridiculous. Like he was sixteen, not forty-fucking-six, and a pretty girl across the way had smiled back at him.
Except the pretty girl was an accomplished assassin and she had his number. She’d had it from the get-go. Fuck. Elijah grabbed his clothes from where they were strewn and headed back to the WC for a quick cleanup. Jack’s kitchen was fully stocked. The man had a pathological obsession with Cheez-Its, at the very least, so there was no real need for Meghna to leave the suite. Unless something was wrong. Unless the last few hours between them had been a lie.
Fur prickled up his spine and back down again. The extra teeth throbbed in his mouth, begging for release. No, the lion inside him insisted. She’s true. She’s mine. He wanted to believe what the cat knew. He had to confirm it. So he went out onto the grounds, following her scent. That rich, seductive essence that could only belong to her. And him. He was all over her. She hadn’t washed him from her after this last time—not thoroughly enough. But that wasn’t the only thing he picked up as he tracked. There was a hint of copper, too. Of blood.
His mobile vibrated in his trousers. A message from ’Quin awaited him. Perimeter breach at Thirteen. Six or more hostiles on the cams. Team en route. Sit tight.
Sit tight? That wasn’t an option. Neither was staying put. Not this time. Even before the choice was yanked out of his hands.
Elijah broke into a run as the first spray of bullets hit the spot where he’d just been. He kept moving until he spied the next set of buildings just over the hill. The stables. They’d provide temporary cover if nothing else. Better than staying out in the open. That was certain death. He tapped out a quick 911 to HQ on his mobile as he moved, then shoved it back in his pocket and switched to wrist comm as he scanned the landscape for shooters. This wasn’t the deliberately sloppy message of the club shooting in Malibu. They were smart, whoever they were. Pros. They knew to conceal, to hunt.
Unlike vampires, shape-shifters didn’t have an expanded life span. The average lion shifter in the wild, without any immediate family or pride, had a life expectancy of fifty. Factor in the life expectancy of the average Black man in America, especially when he constantly ran afoul of law enforcement and the criminal element alike, and Elijah had never counted on living to a great old age. He was forty-six years old, he hadn’t seen his mum and dad in ages, and the clock was ticking. He’d already willed his belongings to Jack and all of that legal rubbish. “What makes you think I’m going to live longer than you?” his partner had sputtered. “Bruv, have you seen yourself? When you finally croak at 102, they’re going to name an entire chain of CrossFit gyms after you.” Lije would just be happy to have his ashes scattered in Jamaica. In Rocky Point where his gran and granddad had lived before moving to London, or the caves at Jackson’s Bay.
At least, that had been the plan. Until now. Plastered against a stable wall, listening for hostiles, hoping for Meghna, Elijah really fucking wanted to survive. Sod dying young. Sod giving Jackson bloody Tate his vinyls and his vintage Clash T-shirts—what was Mr. Dave Matthews Band and Savile Row going to do with his stuff anyway? He’d drink the good whiskey, of which Elijah had plenty, and chuck everything else in the bin.
He propelled off the wall, pulling a partial shift. Maw and claws. The ripple of pleasure-pain went through him in delicious shivers, and he had to swallow the urge to roar. Wouldn’t do to give up his location, now would it? The horses were none too happy with the change, stamping and whinnying in their stalls. They’d smelled the cat on him before, but it was stronger now, more threatening. That couldn’t be helped. They weren’t his prey. They’d have to get over it.
Especially when a single shooter appeared at the open entrance to the horse barn. All black. Night-vision goggles even though it was barely dark. Tactical vest. It was overkill. Doing it up like an extra in an action movie. But the gun in their hand? That was no prop. Elijah didn’t waste any more seconds on observation. He struck before the hostile could radio their mates and give up his hiding spot. Crossing the barn with a leap. Delivering a slash across the throat like he’d done to Aston’s man. And then a snap of the neck to be sure. The shooter fell to the ground in a heap, and Lije immediately knelt to pat down the body. No ID. Two clips and a KA-BAR. When he pulled off the goggles and the mask, it revealed a nondescript white male. Brown hair, flat and lifeless brown eyes. In no way memorable. Just the kind of person you’d want on a professional hit squad.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Elijah added a few more colorful words as he tugged the corpse out of sight behind some hay bales. Lucky for him, there was no one to hear but the horses. At least for now.
Team on premises. Hold your position.The readout on his wrist comm would’ve been hard for human eyes to make out in the dimness, but he had no problem. Message received. Loud and fucking clear. He hated waiting, but he did it. Counting the minutes. The seconds. Until the pop of gunfire reverberated through his skull like a succession of tire blowouts. Elijah could guess what it was about without having to raise his head or pause for breath—JP drawing the shooters away from the stables. The gargantuan wolf leading them in a merry chase…hopefully to where the rest of the team was waiting. That meant the window for a safe egress was rapidly closing. Precious minutes before the shit hit the fan entirely. They needed to go. Close this up. Shut this down. Burn this safe house location. But not yet. Meghna was still out there somewhere, between the tack house and the stables. He couldn’t leave without her. Wouldn’t.
She was true and she was his. That was all that mattered now.
* * *
Meghna hated getting shot. It was so inconvenient. Especially when she’d done nothing to warrant it except go looking for something more substantial than cheese-flavored crackers. An apsara could not live on Cheez-Its alone. She couldn’t live with two bullets in her either. Not for long. Luckily, she’d taken one in the thigh and the other in the upper left arm. Not immediately fatal. No major arteries hit. But the wounds hurt like a bitch and made it hard to hide from the multiple shooters she’d counted. At least four. Professionals who knew how to get a job done. They’d only missed a kill shot because she’d tucked and rolled behind a ridiculous piece of topiary that was still putting up the fight against fall and winter. A figure atop a rearing horse. It had a wide enough base of branches and leaves that she couldn’t be seen. Unfortunately, that meant she couldn’t see her pursuers either.
So she listened for them. The crunch of dry grass and branches under their feet. The changes in the wind. All while scanning around her for her next shelter. Another topiary sculpture a few yards away? The stables? There was a secure room in the tack house, Elijah had told her, but there was no way of knowing she’d be able to access it. It could just as well be a death trap.
Third Shift’s safe house was not getting a good Yelp review. One and a half stars. Pleasant company, but no actual safety. Would not recommend extended stay. Fuck and flee. Meghna tried not to laugh. Any sound might give away her position. But laughing was better than whimpering in pain, right? She sucked in a great big gulp of air, pushing the agony down beneath the breath. These had to be Mirko’s men. They’d found her, followed her, Elijah’s unmarked car be damned. How? One would think they were the supernaturals in this equation. Had the good doctor lied about his experiments? Was there already a wave of genetic hybrids stalking the streets on Mirko Aston’s say-so?
No, said her gut instinct. Because things would be even worse were that the case. Because Mirko would be first in line to power up with a proven serum, and he was still very much human. They’re just people, Meghna. They’re all just people. She needed the reminder. She scrambled up from her crouch, flinching as fire raced along her shoulder and up her hip. Her skin was trying to knit around the bullets but couldn’t. Her supe cells couldn’t charm their way around lead. And so the healing hurt as much as what had necessitated it. Until she got the bullets out, she was living and dying at the same time, a vicious cycle of pain.
Meghna took another steadying breath. And then another. And then she ran. Zigzagging across the manicured lawn—still pristine even with the grass dry and browning. Each crunch felt as loud as a boom of thunder. The massive stables were just ahead of her. There was no guarantee she’d be safe inside them, but the possibility of shelter was better than the certainty of being an open target.
It all went a little blurry for a bit. How she got to the stables. How Elijah was suddenly there, too. His hands on her as he checked her over. Had he come after her after finding his bed empty? Had he dodged bullets or caught them?
“You with me, love?” It sounded like he was willing his voice not to shake. “I need you to stay with me, breathe through the pain.” She tried to stay focused—that was her thing, right? Focus, Meghna. On his face. On his eyes. Not on the blood welling from beneath the makeshift bandage despite the tourniquet he’d tied with his belt. “We have to get you to the egress point,” he murmured. “And we need those bullets out, yeah? Sooner rather than later. Just breathe.”
Her pupils were no doubt dilated, her inhalations shallow. Both signs that were worrying Elijah. But Meghna knew her body was fighting with the bullets as best it could. She clutched at his hand, squeezed it with all her strength. “I do not need a Lamaze coach, Elijah Richter. I need to get the hell out of here.”
He didn’t even wince at her crushing grip. He brought their joined hands to his lips, choking back a laugh or a sob, or both. “I’m working on it, Meg. The team’s on the grounds. We’ve got backup. We’ve just got to get to them.”
“Sure. I’m up for a sprint.” She struggled to sit up, and he swiftly moved to help her, propping her against the stable wall. Oh. Fuck. Her wounded thigh was decidedly not up for a sprint. Or even a brisk walk. “I hate getting shot. Have I mentioned that?”
The sound Elijah made was definitely a laugh this time. “I don’t much like it either,” he said. “Makes you reconsider the job when these are the perks, eh? I had no idea how lucky I was when this assignment landed in my lap.”
“You mean when I landed in your lap.” She smiled faintly, even while glancing over his shoulder to make sure they were still concealed from the hit squad.
Elijah was doing the same. “And look where we are now.” He masked his sweep with a theatrical gesture. “Luxurious accommodations. Killers on our trail. Remind me to take it up with HR when we’re back at HQ.”
The HR callback made her snort. Which moved her chest. Which in turn moved her arm. Which then hurt like a motherfucking bitch. Meghna was growing increasingly tired of the pain. Especially if she was resorting to multiple swear words in an internal narrative she tried to keep in check. She tried to keep everything in check. Because that was her calling, her mission. Everything in service to the cause.
“Meg? You okay?” Elijah’s distress was clear on his handsome face. It was nice to be worried about. To have someone’s concern. How long had it been since anyone cared enough to ask how she was?
You’re slipping again, Meghna.“I’m fine,” she assured him, gritting her teeth against the intense discomfort. The dizziness. “I’m not dying anytime soon.” Brave words. But her voice was dropping, low underneath the whickering of the horses, who were nervous about the predator among them. They could smell the lion and they expected attack. They could smell her, too, and didn’t know what to make of her.
“You should go,” she told Elijah. “See if the coast is clear. I can handle myself.”
“I know you can handle yourself.” He didn’t want to leave her, but he’d have to do a circuit of the stables to make sure their egress was clear. That Mirko’s people weren’t waiting outside to ambush them. “You’re a bloody superhero.”
“I’m bloody, that’s for sure. But I’m not a superhero. Not like you. You want to save the world,” she pointed out.
He made a noise of disagreement. “And you don’t?”
“No,” she insisted. “I just want to make sure fewer terrible people live in it.”
“You’re not one of those terrible people. Just so we’re clear.”
“Oh, no. I’m exceptional,” she assured him, closing her eyes. For just a few seconds. That was all she needed. A few seconds to regroup as her skin and sinew kept trying to heal and her blood kept pouring.
“Fuck it.” She had no idea what Elijah meant with the curse. Not until he began to shift. Partial. Not all the way. Half man, half lion. But taller somehow. Bigger. Big enough to scoop her up with one arm and leave the other free to fight.
He was going to need to find pants again. That had to be a nuisance in his line of work. Focus, Meghna. So she did. Inhaling. Exhaling. Centering. Riding the agony as he carried her from their hiding spot in an undignified bundle.
Rapidly approaching darkness had made it harder to see the blood trail she’d left in her wake—a rookie mistake, one she could only blame on being so focused on evading her pursuers that nothing else mattered—and the night worked again to their advantage now. Blending with them as they kept to the shadows. The horses were still spooked, both by Elijah and the gunfire that had shattered the quiet grounds, but their hoofing and snorting wouldn’t give away his position. Six of them. What looked like a few mares, a couple of great, hulking geldings. That about summed up everything Meghna knew about horses. She’d ridden several, but it was all part of her training, part of her cover as the high-society girl who did things like go to the Veuve Clicquot Polo Classic every year and show up at the Kentucky Derby in a gorgeous hat.
Commandeering a ride was out of the question. The horses wouldn’t take Elijah. She was in no shape to keep them in line. And there was no guarantee that Mirko’s gunmen wouldn’t just shoot their mounts right out from under them. Aston’s flunkies didn’t respect human life. Why would a few animals be any different? Any way you looked at it, they’d be left completely exposed.
Elijah didn’t seem too worried. He just gave a roar and sprang with her into the night.