Hour of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #1) Read Free

work.‖ His voice carried anger and guilt as he whispered, ―I tried and tried to tell them.‖ His gaze avoided the dead woman. ―We‘re born as Daonain.‖
    Her breath eased out. ―There‘s a relief.‖
    ―Yeah, I bet.‖
    Vic yanked at her bindings again, hissed as the skin on her wrists tore. ―Look, cat-person or whatever, do you think you can untie me without...um—‖
    A trace of humor appeared in his light green eyes. ―Without having you for supper? Not a problem.‖ He tried to rise and failed, his chest heaving as if he‘d just jogged a mile. Looking even paler, if possible, he motioned her to him instead. ―I only lose control when I‘m drugged.
    Or suddenly hurt.‖
    Bending to walk under the low top, Vic crossed the cage, her knee grinding with each step.
    ―Or, uh, scared.‖
    She froze a few feet from him. ―You turn into a cougar when you‘re scared?‖ The way her voice rose higher at the end was purely humiliating. She cleared her throat. ―Yeah, well, you‘re not afraid of me, right? And not really scared this minute...right?‖
    He snorted. ―I‘ve been terrified since they caught me a month ago.‖
    She didn‘t move. Cats can‘t see you if you don‘t move—she‘d heard that somewhere. But probably, being only two feet away might ruin that effect.
    His sigh was almost a laugh. ―Get over here. I won‘t trawsfur—uh, change into cat form—
    unless they come back. Cross my heart.‖
    The childish phrase pulled at her emotions; really, he couldn‘t be more than seventeen or so.
    Just a baby. And a very sick baby to boot. Where he wasn‘t bruised, sliced, or burned, his skin was an unhealthy yellowish-white. No wonder she‘d managed to get away from him despite being tied.
    It still took a fair amount of courage for her to turn her back on him so he could work on the rope.
    A couple of extremely long minutes later, she was free. She hunched over her hands, trying not to scream as the blood began to circulate. It felt like she‘d plunged her hands into a barrel of shattered glass. Shit, shit, shit. She sucked in air, breathing hard against the pain, while she opened and closed her fingers.
    ―Untying you won‘t do any good,‖ the boy said. ―We‘re still locked in.‖
    ―Not for long, buddy,‖ she muttered. ―What‘s your fucking name, anyway?‖
    ―It‘s Lachlan—and you sure swear a lot.‖
    ―I‘m planning to stop.‖ She winced at his disbelieving look. ―Really.‖ And the assholes who grabbed her should get totally fucked for messing up her fucking good intentions.
    ―Gramps always says people only swear because their vocabulary is limited.‖
    ―‗In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer,‘‖ she said absently.
    ―What?‖
    ―Mark Twain.‖ Now, had they taken everything from her pockets or just her wallet? ―Of course, compared to Kipling, he‘s a wussy.‖
    He smiled. ―Ya know, I think my grandpa would like you. I like you too.‖ He looked shy as a little kid, and her heart ached. How could he endure all this and still show such sweetness?
    She cleared her throat. ―Well, uh, good.‖ Card...card. She patted her back pockets, felt something stiff in one, and elation bubbled through her. ―Look.‖ She pulled the city transit ticket out of her pocket.
    Lachlan craned his neck to frown at the little brown card. ―Vicki? City transit is good, but I don‘t think the bus stops at this cage.‖
    She laughed. ―Watch and learn, young Skywalker.‖ Carefully, she tore the card into a narrow strip, then ripped some more and folded it into an ―M‖ shape.
    ―Origami?‖ Lachlan said doubtfully, ―My grandfather might enjoy it. He likes weird stuff.‖
    The, ― I miss him‖ was so soft, she almost didn‘t hear it.
    ―How does Gramps feel about lock-picking?‖ She wrapped the heavy paper around one arm of the combination lock, wiggling and shoving the