Pack of secrets, p.3
Pack of Secrets, page 3
My name was Grace, but everyone called me Chipmunk—or Chip for short. As far as nicknames went, it sucked ass. I’d lobbied for a better one, but crappy handles hung on like a noxious stench. Scrub as I might, I could do nothing to wash it away. In a pack full of rowdy, roughneck shifters, I would forever be dubbed a harmless woodland critter, only considered dangerous if my bite carried a disease.
“I can get to it, but it’s gonna take a little longer than planned.” I needed an anchor that wouldn’t disrupt the lasers. Shifting my weight, I debated swinging toward a nearby bookshelf, but I couldn’t tell if it was bolted down and didn’t want to take a chance and topple it over. A slightly less risky idea came to me, and I unstrapped a crossbow pistol with an attached electric fishing reel from my backpack. It was a cute little weapon—looked like a child’s toy—but it packed a hundred pounds of draw weight, was deadly up to forty feet, and was every bit as accurate as a full-size model. Retrieving a weighted bolt from my pack, I unwound a length of sixty-pound fishing line from the reel, threaded it through the hole in the bolt, and tied it off.
The same gifts that enhanced my vision granted me the strength to cock the crossbow without leverage. I loaded the threaded bolt, aimed at the corner wall, and fired. The bolt sailed through the air with a whirr and bit into the wall with a thump. A small hunk of plaster broke free. Holding my breath, I watched as it tumbled down the wall to shatter against the floor, narrowly missing a laser beam.
“What the hell are you doin’ in there?” Rust asked.
I released my breath, relieved the debris hadn’t set off an alarm. “Warmin’ up,” I said in my best Rust impression. “It’s time for a little gymnastics.”
“Be careful, Chip.”
The genuine concern in his voice made me smile. “Always.”
He snorted. I had a reputation for being too damn curious for my own good. Pair that with quick healing and that whole hard-to-kill bonus, and it was like I’d been custom crafted to make questionable life choices. At least, that was the excuse I gave whenever I got caught.
Tonight, however, my ass wasn’t the only one on the line. Despite my curiosity and debatable sense of self-preservation, I’d never put Rust at risk. Especially not before he’d met his newest pup.
Hitting the button to retract the fishing line, I followed the bolt across the room, simultaneously releasing more of the rope that suspended me from the ceiling to keep my altitude steady. As I neared the corner, the bizarre vibrations intensified. They appeared to be coming from a plain wooden container about the size and shape of a shoebox, the most ordinary, simple item in the room. Curious, I positioned myself above it, then pressed the button to stop my horizontal advancement.
Now, I needed to free up my hands without launching myself back across the room in a counterproductive act of stupidity. With the fishing reel locked so it wouldn’t release more line, I secured the crossbow to my backpack. Gravity tugged at my body, ready to turn me into a human pendulum, but the heavy-duty Velcro straps on my bag held, and the fishing line kept me anchored in place. Secure with both hands free, I hovered above the box, suspended between the rope hanging from the skylight and the line connecting my crossbow to the wall.
“This is some next-level skill right here,” I said, mentally patting myself on the back. My arms trembled slightly, and my hairline was damp with sweat, but I’d gotten myself to where I needed to be without setting off any alarms or knocking over any freestanding bookcases.
“What?” Rust asked. Shuffling sounds came from the roof. A shadow hung over me as he peered through the skylight. “Ah. I see. Nice work.”
“You should snap a picture. Maybe show it around the pack and convince everyone I’m a badass, not a Chipmunk.”
Rust chuckled. “Don’t count on it, kid. Doesn’t matter how skilled ya are, you’ll always be a pocket-sized, chubby-cheeked pest. Now get ta work. I see flashlights. You got maybe five minutes.”
Sighing, I returned my attention to the box. Weird. I could have sworn it was plain, unremarkable wood, but now, a galaxy of stars covered the top and sides. As I watched, the design stirred to life. Stars twinkled and glowed. Constellations broke apart and reformed, each movement creating deep grooves in the wood, there one moment and gone the next.
“Get a load of that,” I said, ducking my head to give the camera a good view.
“The box?” Rust asked.
“Yeah. Well, the design on the box. It’s… animated?” That didn’t feel like the right word, so I tried again. “Magical?”
“I… uh… What design? You’re lookin’ at a plain wooden box, Chip.”
I blinked. Nope. There was nothing plain about it. I knuckled my eyes, but the glowing galaxy continued to swirl. Maybe it was something technology couldn’t pick up, the way mirrors couldn’t reflect vampires.
Was that even true? I’d never met a vampire to ask.
“You gonna open it or just stare at it all day?” Rust asked, drawing my attention back to the task at hand.
He was right; we needed to get moving before the patrol made it back. I hesitated, pondering the wisdom of interrupting the star show. Could it open? A thin seam separated the top from the bottom, but it had no visible keyhole or locking device, no tripwires or alarms. Since the box was welded onto a pedestal bolted to the floor, removing it was out of the question. I had no choice but to attempt to crack the container open.
Well, here goes nuthin’.
I slid one gloved hand over the seam and tried to separate the lid from the base. The glove made it impossible to wedge my fingers into the small crack for leverage. Dad had strong opinions against leaving fingerprints behind, but I didn’t have time to rifle through my pack and find a pry bar. Especially not when a flick of my bare fingers could do the trick. With plans to wipe away any resulting prints, I removed my glove and tried again. The lip yielded beneath my fingertip, but it pricked my skin instead of opening. Stung, I yanked my hand back and clamped down on a yelp of pain. Too late. The box had extracted its price. I watched in horror as a small trickle of my blood rolled into an etched star. The star swirled and moved, spreading my DNA across the cover and staining the glowing, rotating design red.
Shit!
The entire ordeal had taken maybe five seconds, but the resulting regret promised to follow me for a lifetime. I could deal with fingerprints, but how the hell did one scrub blood out of magical dynamic carvings? Definitely not something covered in training.
“Ru—” My throat was dry, and I choked on the word. Swallowing, I tried again. “Rust?”
“Yeah?”
How could he sound so calm? Shouldn’t he be freaking out with me? “Did you… happen to see that?”
“See what?”
Before I could answer, the box popped open to reveal an ornately cast copper goblet cushioned on silky golden fabric.
“I see that,” Rust said, his tone unimpressed. “Kinda disappointin’, don’t ya think?”
I laughed. Disappointing? I could barely hear him over the pounding of my heart. My frayed nerves felt like they were tap-dancing on my bladder. My mentor hadn’t heard the thrum of the artifact or seen its creepy blood-drinking magic show. That meant this cup had to be what I was after!
“It’s a flashy cup, wrapped in cloth, hidden in a junky ol’ box,” he said. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
The thrumming was louder now, almost like a beacon calling me closer and begging me to take the cup away from this place. Without consciously deciding to do so, I reached out and picked it up with my bare hand. I didn’t die. Instead, a warm, tingly sensation seeped into my blood and flowed up my arm. Shocked, I stared at the thing. An unwelcome sense of comfort and assurance swept over me. Caution flared, begging me to drop the artifact and get the hell out of there. According to every book I’d ever read on the subject, sentient objects were not something to be trifled with.
Ever.
But my hand wouldn’t release the blasted thing.
“What are ya waitin’ for?” Rust asked. “You got maybe a minute and a half before the patrol’ll be back around.”
His words hit me like a sledgehammer, shattering whatever spell I’d been under. I shoved the cup into my backpack and closed the box. The carvings were gone, along with any sign of my blood. All things considered, taking the time to wipe away my fingerprints seemed pointless, but it was the one problem I could solve, so I did. Flicking off my cap lamp, I plotted my escape route. Getting out of here promised to be tricky. Unsheathing a dagger from my thigh, I blinked until my enhanced vision kicked back in. Bracing myself, I sliced the wire anchoring me to the wall. Gravity finally got its due, sending me rocketing across the room. Dropping in altitude as I threw my weight to one side, I narrowly avoided a table precariously piled with riches.
The lasers!
I was falling too quickly. At this rate, I was sure to interrupt the beams and alert the entire estate to my presence. Panicked, I smacked the rapid ascent button on my harness. The contraption whirred to life, sucking in extra slack and shooting me toward the ceiling. Still upside down and swinging like a trapeze artist hopped up on energy potions, I narrowly escaped the laser beams only to find myself on a collision course with the bedazzled suit of armor.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Throwing my weight to the side, I squeezed my eyes closed, willed myself to be as small and weightless as possible, and crossed my fingers and toes. Metal brushed against my sleeve, but I avoided contact. I would have cheered, but I was too busy swallowing back bile as I ate up the distance to the roof.
If I survived this, I’d have to add upside-down aerial ballerina acrobatics to my training routine because nothing in my life had prepared me for this reckless ride. Stomach roiling, vision blurring, the end of the line came at me like a bad omen. Knowing I couldn’t escape my doom, I swung wide, missing the open skylight only to smack my hip against the ceiling. Biting my lip against a cry of pain as momentum hurled me toward the opposite side, I steeled myself for another bone-crunching whack. At the last minute, I came to my senses and threw my weight to slow my progress. I still struck the ceiling, but my teeth hardly rattled this time. Progress. With a few more maneuvers, wild swinging mellowed to a manageable rocking, and my stomach settled enough that I was no longer in danger of tossing my cookies all over the treasure room. Now that would be a humiliating way to set off the alarm. I flipped myself right side up and reached for the skylight.
The dim yellow glow of Rust’s eyes greeted me as his hands grabbed mine to hoist me through the narrow opening. The instant my feet hit the roof, he started unhooking my harness. The world rocked back and forth. I couldn’t tell if I was swaying or the roof was, but I really wanted everything to hold still.
Rust’s gaze locked onto my bare hand, and he froze. “Your glove.”
Right. That was a problem. Since he’d missed all the weird shit with the box, it made sense for him to stress about fingerprints, but they were the least of our concerns. The stabby box had my freaking DNA.
“I wiped my prints off,” I said. At least I could put his mind at ease about that.
He nodded approvingly. “Good. Ya handled it. Nobody needs to know. It’s fine.”
Fine? More like screwed six ways to Sunday, but I was willing to play along if he thought we were fine.
“Glove? What glove?” I asked like I was the picture of innocence.
Unfortunately, the question remained, niggling in the back of my mind. Where was my glove? Had it fallen to the floor, somehow missing the laser beams? I must have dropped it when the box pricked my finger. Or was it during my reckless ascent?
The desire to kick my own ass was almost overwhelming. My future was riding on this job, and there was no possible way to screw it up worse than I had.
Then, as Rust stuffed my gear into my pack, the universe decided to prove me wrong.
An alarm screeched.
Grace
With the alarm blaring behind him, Rust dropped into a crouch and gestured for me to do the same. Gazes locked, he held up two fingers and pointed toward the north side of the building, silently letting me know which direction the patrol would come from. Funny, since we were undoubtedly about to be swarmed from all sides. I had no idea what had triggered the alarm, but if we didn’t get out of there soon, we’d find ourselves in the crosshairs of the guards.
Obviously thinking the same thing, Rust pointed his finger at me before gesturing toward the south. Hands snapping apart, he pantomimed driving. Finally, he flapped his arms like a chicken. Message received: He wanted me to go south, get to the bikes, and then take off. He would lead the patrol away and then catch up or meet me back at the den.
That last bit—the chicken arms—that was my idea. Long ago, I’d told Rust if he insisted on a gesture that would ensure I fled with no questions asked, that was my price—flapping his arms like an idiot. He could have pulled rank and refused, but I was an anxious little kid on my first heist and worried about the wolf who’d trained me. My safety had mattered more to Rust than his pride. Almost fifteen years later, we still used the signal. And I was only marginally more mature because, despite the severity of the situation, the sight of a muscular five-foot-six, two-hundred-pound bearded man busting into a haphazard version of the chicken dance never ceased to bring a smile to my face.
He scowled and gestured for me to get out of there.
I sobered and mouthed, “Be careful.” All kidding aside, I hated that he was putting himself in danger so I could safely escape, but there was no arguing with the stubborn bastard. Best to accept it and be on my way so he could hurry and join me.
Hooking his arm around my neck, he scraped the knuckles of one fist along the top of my head a couple of times, mussing my hair with a noogie. Reconsidering my concern for him escaping unharmed, I shoved him away before taking off. As I scampered away, his gaze burned a hole in the back of my head. Like always, he followed my progress, making sure I made it safely. I reached the edge of the castle roof, waved at him, and jumped.
Yes, castle. More precisely, a secluded stone relic concealed deep in central Washington's overgrown, magical forest.
Anyway, the drop might have broken my legs if I had been fully human, but since I wasn’t, I landed in a crouch, froze, and listened. I hadn’t seen any patrols, but the estate was rife with scents I’d never smelled before. Rust had picked gargoyles out of the mix and filled me in on the creatures.
Our world was separated into two factions, the magical Tricari and the non-magical Mondeine. Like shifters, gargoyles were Tricari and could transform into three forms. Their forms included: human; a winged creature with sharp talons and flesh-ripping teeth; and stone. It wasn’t much information to go on, but Tricari races didn’t intermingle. Hell, before the war, our people were too busy pretending to be Mondeine to even acknowledge that other races existed. We’d had twenty-five years of peace to seek out others and form alliances, but my pack had chosen to double down on segregation instead.
It’s true what they say, you really can’t teach old wolves new tricks.
When nothing came barreling around the corner to rip me limb from limb, I bolted toward the south. The estate was enormous, with multiple buildings and gardens. Darting from one ivy-covered brick archway to the next, I kept my eyes, ears, and nose peeled for any sign of pursuit. Snarls came from somewhere behind me.
As I circled a gazebo, footsteps approached from the opposite direction. Ducking behind a bush, I forced my breathing to slow. Since I’d been running and sweating away the first application, I removed a small spray bottle from my bag and spritzed myself with a concoction my witchy aunt had developed to mask scent. I didn’t know if gargoyles had keen noses but decided to play it safe.
Feet pounded the grass on the other side of my hiding spot, drawing near. I drew my daggers, held my breath, and waited in the shadows. The runner passed by and kept going without so much as a sniff in my direction. Releasing my breath, I listened as his footsteps faded. Crisis averted, I re-sheathed my daggers, slipped out of my hiding spot, and continued on my way.
We were about an hour and a half drive southeast of Seattle. I was no expert on isolated residences, but it was easy to surmise that this one didn’t roll out the red carpet for visitors. In addition to its remote, hidden location, the estate was surrounded by an eight-foot-tall, barbed wire fence made from a lethal blend of silver and steel. On the way in, Rust and I had cut a small gate in the security fence. Now that I’d put enough distance between myself and the great hunt for my gallant mentor, I altered my course to head toward our entry point. Nearing a familiar copse of trees, I squeezed between two thick shrubs, used my gloved hand to find our hidden makeshift gate, and pushed it open. I slipped through, careful not to let any of my skin touch the lethal wire—I’d been burned by silver once and had no desire to repeat the painful experience. Since Rust would most likely be coming in hot with a pack of guards riding his tail, I left the gate open so he wouldn’t have to fiddle with it.
Now that I was off the private property of the estate, nothing but dark forest land stretched out before me. Unlike in the city, there were no overgrown ruins or lingering scents of gasoline and human waste here. I sucked down a deep breath of clean mountain air and stretched into a run, weaving through trees and eating up the distance between the fence and the clearing where we had stashed the bikes.
Growing up in a pack, I’d learned that most shifters didn’t distinguish between their halves. Animal and human combined to form one whole person, like two sides of the same coin. My relationship with my wolf was different. I could access her abilities like enhanced sight and smell, but something separated us. It was almost like she was caged within my soul, more of a passenger than an active participant.
Now, however, she unfurled like a bear waking up after months of hibernation. The forest called to her, and her excitement bled over into my senses. I could practically feel her tail wagging. I ran through the dark, soaking up the sights, sounds, and smells like a thirsty sponge. Everything felt intensified. The scent trail of a deer made my mouth water. A cool breeze danced over my skin like soft kisses. My ears perked up at the trickling of a nearby stream, and my feet itched to abandon my path and follow the water wherever it led. My wolf and I had never been on our own in a forest. There was so much to explore I could hardly contain her excitement. She whined, desperate to be let off the leash.
