But it would be weird and complicated. And she’d expect him to stick around because of their shared past. At seventeen, he’d left the home Jenna and Mason had built. They’d taken in Penny as well, after her mother died, and Chris Welsh moved on. They were the reason he’d survived the first, awful winter after the Change. Mason taught him everything he knew—the closest thing Tru had known to a father. Never once had he considered heading back to see how they fared, if they had kids, or if their homestead prospered. Sometimes it was better to imagine the best.
Given his grim history, he wouldn’t be able to bear it if the people who’d saved him were gone, too.
Tru shook his head. Penelope would not be the woman he carried away from the truck. She seemed to be healing some of these folks, meaning she was a witchy do-gooder. He’d fare better with someone else.
His gaze lit on a pretty thing chained up by her arms. She seemed less terrified, watching him with eyes afraid to hope. He found a knife in the guard’s pocket and moved in, slow and cautious.
“I’m going to cut you loose,” he told the girl. “Do you speak English?
Hablas inglés
?” That was pretty much all the Spanish he knew. If they didn’t share a language, they were boned.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Hold still, then. It’ll take me a while to saw through the wire. I don’t think I can untangle you without freeing this end first.” He flashed a roguish smile. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
She smiled back that time, responding to his practiced charm. “Thank you.”
Nearby, Pen made another sound. He couldn’t tell what emotion it represented, and he didn’t much care. This was the woman he would take out of the truck and call his own for a while. Oh, he’d find somewhere safe to leave her once he was sated. But until then, they’d have a great time in bed. So for today, sex won.
Death could wait a little longer.
She needed a bath and time to recover, but if he played his cards right, this little bird would creep into his bedroll, trembling with excitement and appreciation. That was his favorite part of the chase—when the prey didn’t even know she was being hunted. A thrill of arousal shivered through him, but he didn’t let on, merely kept working the blade against the wire.
Pen was still working behind him. The air gained a visible charge, like sunlight reflected on a new sidewalk. It had been a long time since he’d seen that, but he’d never forgotten the shine. Hairs on his nape lifted as she murmured something, almost a chant. Hella distracting. Fine, she could save them. Teach them to read and make pottery, whatever industrious females did these days.
“What’s your name?” he asked the girl.
“Calla.”
“That’s pretty.”
“It’s Greek,” she volunteered in a tiny voice. “My mother told me it means ‘beautiful.’”
He smiled. “You are. Eyes like pansies. It’s terrible what these bastards did to you because you’re young and gorgeous.”
“You think so?” Those eyes beamed more hope up at him.
She should really know better by now. None of us can be trusted, especially me.
But he offered his best smile. “I promise. How old are you?”
He retained some pre-Change scruples. Some men didn’t. Just as some skinwalkers had gone cannibal, some men had lost all sense of who might be a suitable sex partner. Tru wouldn’t touch a girl if she said she was fifteen. That was how old he’d been when everything fell apart.
“Eighteen,” she answered.
Old enough. He’d be twenty-seven soon. People grew up fast in this life. Her age might prove a bonus because she’d be infatuated with him for a short time. She’d get over him when he left, and find someone to build a life with down the road. Older women were more dangerous, mature in their emotions and their attachments. When a thirty-something woman told him she loved him, she meant it. Tru still moved on, though he regretted any lasting harm. He couldn’t stick around after dealing with the fallout when he did.
With a ping, the wire gave and he freed it from the coils around Calla’s forearm. That left only one to go. Before moving on, he set his hands lightly on her arm and rubbed the circulation back. Her throat worked and her eyes fell half closed. It was almost too easy with this one. Given half a chance, she would curl into him like a kitten. Women desired men they saw as saviors.
“How come you’re helping me?” she asked. “Other people need you more. I’m not going to die or anything.”
“You’re special. I knew that as soon as I saw you.” He spoke the lie without a tell.
Another of those sounds from Pen. He ignored her, but Calla cast the other woman a questioning glance. “Do you need his help? I can wait.”
“I’m fine,” Pen muttered, but her voice had a thick, dazed sound.
Annoyed, Tru turned. The clammy pallor of her face was visible even beneath the dirt. She knelt over a girl who definitely wasn’t going to make it. He could have told her that and saved her some time. A silver glow kindled from her hands, radiating steadily.
“She doesn’t look good,” Calla observed.
Dammit. He should have his pick hauled out of the truck by now. But her pansy eyes said she would be disappointed if he didn’t pretend an interest in helping the others. If he hadn’t already set his course and claimed Calla was special, he’d pick a less idealistic, more grateful girl. But full on, as they say.
So he put down the knife and crouched beside Pen. She was still trying to save the patient, but he didn’t think it was possible. “She’s not going to make it.”
He pulled her hands away, interrupting whatever the hell she was doing. That touch gave him a crazy shock, like grabbing a live wire—if anything still ran on electricity, which it didn’t.
The jolt from her skin left him tingling and dizzy. “Fuck.”
“Asshole!” she shouted. “You killed her.”
“No, the guard did that.” He tried to keep calm, to make her see reason. Why, he couldn’t be sure. “You were just prolonging it. You’ve got some mighty mojo, but she’s not gonna live. Look at the hole in her gut. Move on to those you can save.”
Because he knew Calla wanted him to, he ripped some bandages from a dead guard’s clothing and helped Pen with the wounded. Not something he’d normally do, but he was getting hungrier by the minute. Shifting took a lot out of him. Soon he’d look as fragile and pasty as Pen. Women didn’t respond to weakness. If he wanted Calla to go with him, he had to show her he was strong and capable.
“There, that’s the best I can do here.”
At last he and Pen had bound the wounds, their supplies crude and their patients edgy for freedom. Tru returned to Calla. By sheer effort of will, he concealed the light tremor in his hands as he sawed the wire. She was gazing at him like he was a proper hero.
Game, set, and match.
He freed the girl and extended a hand. “Come on, precious. We need to make tracks before O’Malley misses this shipment.”
It gave him a little burst of pleasure when her small fingers touched his. She stepped from the truck, his hands on her waist. She took a step toward him as if unable to help herself, seeking his proximity.
Mine. Soon.
The lion in him gave a lazy growl of approval. He needed a fuck so bad.
The girl drew up short then, glancing up at the truck. “But what about the others?”
“I’ll help them get to safety,” Pen said firmly.
But she looked winded and wan, hardly able to shepherd a motley group of refugees. Tru gave them half an hour in the wasteland. Tops.
Not my problem.
Until Calla said, “We’ll help you.”
Shit.
Tru glared. He could get to hate Penelope fucking Sheehan.
THREE
Pen stared back. But mentally, she changed him into the boy she’d once known. This version of Tru, grown-up and beautiful, was a selfish bastard.
The young woman, Calla, stared at him with the eyes of a little girl at Christmas. Pen remembered feeling that way. She’d sat on her mother’s lap, determined to stay awake long enough to see Santa come down the chimney. She’d never managed to do so, but neither had she lost faith.
The Change had taken it from her instead.
Trying to heal that wounded prisoner had taken a lot from her, too. She hated that Tru had been right about the poor kid. The girl just bled and bled. Pen had been willing to try her most dedicated spell, knowing the risk. She hadn’t been allowed that chance.
Now she had a whole truckful of captives to protect, and the only viable partner in her task was one surly, selfish skinwalker.
Pen grabbed a cloth from the pile of rags the guards had confiscated from their quarry. After wiping her hands, she dug a little deeper and found her cloak. And her belt of knives. She didn’t know what god to thank anymore when things went right, so she always just thanked her mother—the closest connection she maintained with the divine.
Wrapping that fine, familiar wool around her shoulders, she held her dizziness at bay. She needed food and sleep. That was the counter to the energy expended for her spells. With another glance at Tru, she knew he suffered the same ailment. Magic could be a fine thing, but it made unearthly demands on the body.
“Calla,” she said evenly, taking a knee. “Would you do something for me?”
The woman nodded. She really was an incredible beauty. But there was a time and place for everything. In the Changed world, Pen couldn’t imagine any benefit to being so attractive. It only meant attention that few females desired.
But then, Tru had chosen Calla from two dozen possibilities. She would live because of his attention, and because of her pretty face.
Some things hadn’t changed at all.
“The driver. The guards. They must’ve had food somewhere. Will you look for it?”
As if asking for permission, Calla flicked a glance toward Tru, where he lounged against a tree trunk, arms folded over his chest.
He simply shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”
Maybe the girl wasn’t so oblivious as Pen had first assumed. “And you
will
help, yes?”
Tru sighed, shook his head in resignation, and pushed away from the tree. Calla rustled through the pile of clothing and found a jacket with shredded sleeves. Who knew if it was actually hers, but she seemed compelled to cover up. Yes, she had a little sense after all. Then she was gone, hurrying off toward the front of the truck.
“You could be sending her to face an armed driver,” he said, strolling to meet her. He yanked aside the canvas flap.
“You don’t leave wounded if you attack.” She met his gaze. “I’d stake my soul on it.”
He snorted. “Soul. Good luck with that.”
“Tell me I’m wrong, then. Tell me I just sent that girl to her death.”
“They’re dead. She’ll be fine.”
Together they helped the prisoners from the truck. The process was arduous, as most were hobbled by injuries or pure, cold fear. But at least Tru stuck around long enough to offer his aid—no matter the don’t-give-a-shit smile on his lush lips. Despite the grace and power in his sleek body, Pen noticed that his arms shook. Shifting depleted him as badly as magic did her.
After boosting herself into the truck, she worked on freeing the rest of the bound prisoners. Had she been truly tied or wired in that chicken coop of a vehicle, she would’ve behaved like a wolverine. Chew loose. Escape by any means, even without her magic. But most of the prisoners simply languished. Hoping for rescue in this age was the same as waiting to die.
She couldn’t relate, but she sympathized.
One captive, however, was not so passive. Tru had climbed inside to join her and worked to loosen fastenings on the truck’s left side while Pen faced the boy who’d sat beside her for the whole journey. He’d cringed when she worked to wrench free. But with the guards dead, he didn’t cower anymore. She wiped blood on her leggings and got a better grip on her knife, ready to help.
“What’s your name?”
Keen brown eyes above a wide mouth watched her face as she worked on his ties. He had lovely dark skin, all smooth and free of the worry he must feel. “Adrian.”
“You ready to get out of here, Adrian?”
“Yes, I am.” He hesitated, not even speaking when he brought around his free hands. Fingers petted wrists, almost nervously. “You’re . . . You’re her, aren’t you?”
She stilled. “Who?”
“The Orchid.”
Those remaining in the truck fell silent. If she looked behind her, she’d find what she always did: a mixture of awe, fear, and reserve. The Orchid inspired that in people—just as she’d intended years ago. Pen had found the strategy useful when rallying troops against impossible odds and providing comfort for the fallen. But the legend had outpaced her abilities.
“My name is Pen,” she said quietly. “You may call me that.”
Adrian seemed only a little chastened. He continued to watch her with a gaze bordering on worshipful.