Golden Bell

It hurt. Rain glanced over her shoulder, crouched on the gritty alley floor. The fall had skinned her palms and knees, and the wounds stung. But they were coming; she could hear them over the sounds of midnight traffic, though she didn’t try to peer into the glare of streetlights. She ran.

Breathless, trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, she forced herself into a stumbling lope. Her sweat-soaked jeans and t-shirt had turned clammy, adding to the misery. She would have loved to ditch her ragged jacket and pack, but didn’t dare; they comprised all of her worldly goods, and she needed them in the chill London fog.

Scaling the chain link fence at the end of the alley was easy, evading the snarling Doberman who went for her throat was not. With no time for regret, she gave it a hearty kick, sprinted across the lawn and jumped, grabbing the top of the ornate stone fence. She swung her legs up and slipped over, barely making it before the dog sunk teeth into her.

Another empty alley.

Stink rose to assault her nostrils, and she groaned. Thanks, Fido. If she didn’t watch it, her hunters would smell her coming. To add insult to injury, she started to sneeze. Great. Wonderful time for canine allergies to strike.

Trying to catch her breath, she moved cautiously down the white-lit brick canyon, praying she’d lost them. She sneezed again, tried to muffle it. She was so tired. The next time she fell, she might not get up.

Listening, straining her preternaturally keen ears to catch any noise, she searched for sounds of pursuit. Finding none, she slowly relaxed and sank against the chilly wall, ignoring the trash at her feet. She’d made it.

Suddenly light exploded into the alley. Deafened by the shouts of men and barking dogs, blinded by the sudden glow, Rain saw death coming and despaired.

***

“Wake up!”

A slap accompanied the brutal voice, jerking Rain from the comfort of darkness. Moaning, she pried open her eyes and blinked at the murky cell. She didn’t remember coming there, but she did recall being jabbed with something. Cuffs bound her wrists behind her, and her rear was planted on a hard wooden chair. Did they mean to question her? The word torture flitted across her mind, and she shuddered. Please, God, no!

Her tormentor, a scarred blighter in working class clothes, took a narrow-eyed look at her and glanced at the other man in the cell, an older gentleman in a suit. What hair he had left was iron gray, perfectly matching the winter coldness in his faded blue eyes. He looked her over and smiled without humor. “Rain, is it? Daughter of Rian Miller?”

She shivered. “Who are you?”

The smile-that-wasn’t curved his lips again. “Taught you some unusual things, didn’t he? Lock picking, shooting…how to run and how to hide.”

Nervous now, she felt the cold sweat start again. Her father had been dead for a year; killed by the very people she now suspected held her, but few people had really known him, known what he was. These people were not so blissfully ignorant.

By the chill satisfaction in his eyes, he was enjoying her torment. “I have a few questions for you, my dear. Rory!”

A tall, dark man entered at his command, favoring the gent with a cold look. “I’m not deaf, Trent.”

“Mr. Trent,” the scarred one said aggressively, stepping toward him.

Mr. Trent held up his hand, stopping his goon. To Rory he said, “Question her.”

Rory sent a cold look her way. “Question is all I’ll do. I’m getting bloody sick of your games, Mr. Trent.”

“Strive to remember what happens when you fail me,” Mr. Trent said coldly, “and remember who gets hurt.”

His lip curled, but Rory turned to Rain. Softening a little, he asked gently, “What’s your name, love?”

Rain hadn’t lived twenty-two years without seeing some good-looking men. This one, however, put them all to shame. Black hair, deep green eyes and a face to make an angel weep were temptation enough, but there was something more, something she couldn’t place. Did he wear cologne? That had to be it, for a scent of tempting power hung about him, though she’d never known a fragrance to addle her so. Just breathing it made her tired blood stir, and the longer he stood by her, the worse the sensation became. Sex in a bottle, her muddled brain exclaimed, trying dimly for a warning, but whatever it was telling her became lost in his eyes.

The goon said something to Mr. Trent. The haze she was under dulled their words, but she thought she heard the goon say, “This one’s got it bad.”

Rory smirked at her, but the scent messed with her perceptions, because her heart insisted it was an expression of sympathy. “I don’t think we’ll be needing these, will we?” he said, moving slowly around her to touch her cuffs. She felt a key slide into the cuffs and they fell away, granting her blessed freedom. Rubbing her aching arms, she felt gratitude swell. “Thank you.”

Rory looked her over. “What’s a sweet thing like you done to get yourself in this mess? Don’t you have mates who will be looking for you?”

In the background, she could hear the goon telling Mr. Trent, “I’ll bet he asks for this one when he’s done. She’d be a looker if she cleaned up, and our Rory does like to have his fun before you dispose of them.”

She heard, but the words meant nothing. So long as she could smell Rory, feel the thunder in her blood from breathing him in, nothing else mattered. “Friends…no, I have no friends.”

Rory frowned. “How can that be? A nice girl like you must have lots of friends. What about your father’s mates? Won’t they help you?”

She thought, very willing to tell him everything she knew. “I…I haven’t seen anyone since my father died.”

He smiled comfortingly. “But you know where they are, right? Those mates of his?” He glanced at Trent, then moved closer to whisper in her ear, “I can help you. Tell me where to find your father’s friends, and I can help them find you.”

The touch of his mouth against her ear sent shockwaves down her spine. Longing seized her. Just let him touch her…