The Strange Path Read online

  Table of Contents

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Glossary

  THE STRANGE PATH A BOOK OF THE SANGUIRE

  by D. Jordan Redhawk

  Copyright © 2012 by D Jordan Redhawk

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

  First published 2012

  Editor: Katherine V. Forrest

  Cover Designer: Linda Callaghan

  ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-275-5

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Anna Redhawk—you could never love you like me—standing next to you will always be me.

  Acknowledgment

  No book is written in a vacuum, and this particular series has seen years of writing, editing, proofing and rewriting. So many people have helped me throughout its creation, and I know I’m missing people somewhere along the line. If your name isn’t here, my apologies. Know that you were vital to the finished product, and I couldn’t have done it without your support.

  Those not among the missing include Janet Redhawk (no relation), Agatha Turko, Carol Dickerson, Teresa Crittenden, Jean Rosestar and Jaq Hills. You stuck with my first efforts through the years, added your two cents where appropriate, and kept me interested enough in the project to continue writing it. Thank you for the emails and critiques! And Mr. Dommie? You da man!

  Anita Pawlowski, Shawn Cady and Anna Redhawk (definite relation!)—my first readers. You guys suffered through reading four different versions of the same story. My apologies for taking so long to get it right, and I appreciated your time and effort on my behalf. You guys ROCK!

  Most of all, my thanks go to Karin Kallmaker, Katherine V. Forrest, and everyone else at Bella Books. They took a single manuscript and agreed to a trilogy, sight unseen. Thank you so much for taking a chance on me!

  About The Author

  D Jordan Redhawk lives and works in the Pacific Northwest. She shares her life with her wife of twenty-four years and two black cats. She’s a geek, Apple fan, metal-head, enjoys sharp pointy things and science fiction/fantasy books.

  To know more, check out her website, In Shadows - http://www.djordanredhawk.net

  Chapter One

  Whiskey woke, unable to see, lurching to one side as all motion stopped. The sudden stillness puzzled her. Why does my head hurt? Car doors slammed, rocking her with the reverberations. Fear kicked her heart into overdrive. The boys, the car, the attack. Someone thumped the trunk lid. She flinched, barely kept from crying aloud as footsteps crunched past. They spoke just out of hearing, their voices nothing more than a murmur that she registered above the roar of her pulse in her ears. Blood still oozed from the cut in her mouth. She hadn’t been unconscious long. That meant they hadn’t traveled too far from where they’d attacked her.

  Struggling, she turned onto her side, reaching out to the walls of her cramped prison. Rubber and dust filled her nostrils, the spare tire digging into her side. Other unseen items pressed against her, her backpack a hindrance as buckles and straps tangled her arms. If she got out of here in one piece, she’d at least have her personal belongings with her. She strained against the lid. It didn’t budge. Maybe I can reach the latch from in here. She searched blindly for the nooks and crannies inherent in any vehicle trunk. Stiff carpet met her touch, slight dips and hollows indicating where metal chassis gave way to engineering cavities. If she could get the carpeting pried up, she might be able to access—

  The lid popped open. They dragged her from the trunk. Swearing, she punched and scratched and kicked anything within reach.

  “Ow! Shit! She fucking bit me!”

  Pleased, Whiskey had no time to dwell on the distinctly different taste of the boy’s blood compared to her own. One lost his grip on her arms, and she threw a wild roundhouse swing that connected with another’s temple.

  “Hold her! Fucking hold her, you idiots!”

  That was their ringleader, Paul. She remembered that much at least from their initial meeting.

  Despite the strength of desperation, she succumbed, outnumbered. She stood pinioned between two nervous boys, Paul gloating before her. In the dim glow of a distant streetlight, she made out a prone body a few feet away. Satisfaction shot through her. Knocked that bastard out, at least. Two others nursed their wounds nearby. One wrapped his bleeding hand in a T-shirt. Beyond fear, she sneered at him, making a production of licking her lips.

  Paul backhanded her, knocking her head to one side. She slowly turned toward him, defiance simmering. Lights sparkled in her vision. She shook her head, but they remained in the darkness beyond Paul’s shoulder. They look like eyes.

  “Hope you clean up good, bitch, because we’re going to fuck you until you scream. But first—” He punched her hard in the abdomen.

  Whiskey tried to double over from the impact, but her captors held her upright. Paul hit her again in the same place. She sagged and dry-heaved, unable to breathe. The boys let her drop to her knees between them. Nothing but bile came up. She couldn’t help a weak chuckle. Good thing I haven’t eaten all day. Movement flickered from the corner of her vision. She looked into the night, and saw the sparkles nearing. Dogs? The lights weren’t at ground level. Awful big dogs.

  Paul yanked her head up by the hair. Grinning, he said, “You’re going to regret fucking with me, bitch.” He delivered another punch, his fist crashing into her cheek, knocking her back to the ground.

  Whiskey struggled to retain enough consciousness, to stand and defy the bastard. Everything ached. Her ears rang, and her stomach threatened to make another vomiting attempt.

  “Come on, get up, pussy. Thought you were going to kill me.”

  Anger flared in her chest. She forced herself to her hands and knees. Maybe she’d die tonight, but she’d be damned if she’d go down without a fight. Impatient, Paul ordered his friends to pick her up. The r
eality of her physical state hit her. Panting, she tried to unfold her body, unable to straighten from the pain in her belly. She sagged between her captors, the edges of panic tickling her resolve.

  “Let’s get her to the water.”

  “A bit cold for that, isn’t it?”

  Whiskey blinked as a woman coalesced from the darkness where the sparkles had been. Others materialized with her, sliding into the clearing from every direction. Were those their eyes?

  “Hold her,” Paul muttered. He turned to the newcomer. “It’s none of your business. Beat it. There’s nothing here for you.”

  The new arrivals ignored him. They threaded their way through the group, seven Goth street punks—four men and three women. Even in her half-beaten state, Whiskey felt a measure of envy for their leather and latex. They had a small fortune invested in their wardrobe. All four men had mohawks, though only two had dyed and spiked them. Of the women, one had the telltale dyed black hair of a Goth. The others had red and blonde hair respectively.

  The redhead had come out of hiding first. She now slinked among the boys to stand before Paul. “I’m hurt.” A fake pout perched upon her lips. “You’re having a party, and you didn’t bother to invite us.”

  A couple of the boys sniggered, obviously feeling they had the upper hand. The male punks were slim and silent. None swaggered with machismo despite tattoos, multiple piercings and clothing that bristled with metal spikes. The lead of a woman enhanced their inherent weakness, magnifying it by the placid way they’d infiltrated the scene. Rather than put up a united front, they’d sprinkled themselves among the rich teenagers, mingling with the enemy, weakening their advantage.

  “What kind of party did you have in mind?” Paul leered at the redhead.

  The woman with dirty blonde hair sidled up to Whiskey and her captors. Without asking permission, she reached over and fingered Whiskey’s hair. One of the boys tightened his grip, but didn’t interfere. The blonde brushed disheveled hair from Whiskey’s face, caressed her cheek with a thumb, swiping through the blood trickling from her nose. The woman’s dark eyes slowly scanned Whiskey’s form before returning to her face. She smiled, tasted the blood on her thumb, and turned away.

  Whiskey shivered as the woman’s eyes flashed golden from the reflection of a distant streetlamp. Just like a wolf. She shook her head; she couldn’t deny the points of light she’d seen in the darkness before their arrival. They must wear designer contacts.

  The teasing conversation had continued between Paul and the redhead, all attention upon them. Beside Whiskey, the blonde murmured in a barely audible voice, “Aga ninna.”

  Whiskey wondered what it meant. She blinked at the abrupt attention from the punks. As one, they turned to stare at her. She saw several sets of eyes flash like the blonde’s. What the fuck’s going on? She’d barely heard her. How the hell did they? Who are they?

  Suspicious with the sudden tension, the boys shuffled in the crowd, their movements childish and awkward compared to the dangerous grace of their visitors. First to turn away, the redhead reached up to caress Paul’s cheek. “This party’s just getting started.” With a laugh, she raked her fingernails down his face, gouging the skin with razor-sharp swiftness.

  He yelped in pain, reaching out to backhand her.

  The blonde spun around, and delivered a punch to one of Whiskey’s guards. The boy released Whiskey, and crumpled to the ground.

  “One punch?” Whiskey stared at the boy writhing on the ground. She saw no blood, and the blonde didn’t have a weapon. Christ, she’s strong!

  “Fuck this!” Whiskey’s other guard turned, and ran into the darkness.

  Without the support, Whiskey dropped to her knees, her body reminding her of the toll that had been taken. Staring stupidly around the clearing, she saw her tormenters lying on the ground, some unconscious and others moaning in pain. She smelled the sharp aroma of blood, though it didn’t look like any of them were seriously wounded. Peering at the aftermath, she attempted to wrap her mind around the speed and power of the punks’ attack.

  “Let me assist you, ninna.” The blonde helped Whiskey stand, and offered her body as a brace.

  Whiskey grunted, her stomach roiling at the abuse. She couldn’t stand straight, and wondered if she’d received internal injuries. She glanced around, amazed at the efficacy of her saviors. Her gaze narrowed on one of them crouching over his victim. He looked ready to bite the boy’s neck.

  “Manuel, not now,” the redhead ordered.

  “I’m hungry.” Long canines flashed.

  Whiskey closed her eyes, shaking her head. A sharp stab of pain made her stop.

  “Later, dude,” the man with the blue mohawk said. “Let’s get out of here before the cops show up.”

  “We’re too exposed, Manuel,” the redhead said. “I don’t want the Saggina coming down on us. Not now.” Her gaze flickered to Whiskey. “You know why.”

  Disgusted, Manuel released his opponent, who dropped to the ground with a thump. “Fine. I’ll go catch the one that got away.”

  “Do that.” The redhead approached Whiskey. “Are you well?”

  Whiskey tried to speak. Relief and shock clogged her throat. She nodded.

  The woman smiled, held out her hand. “My name is Fiona. Shall we leave, my little lamma? We have place of safety nearby.”

  Clearing her throat, Whiskey finally found her voice. “Uh, okay.” If anyone came by now, all of them would be locked up, and on their way to prison. She glanced at the unconscious Paul, unable to tell if he still breathed. A part of her hoped not. She gathered up the moisture in her mouth and spit on him, blood and saliva mingling to slide down his face.

  Laughing, Fiona took Whiskey’s hand and tugged, pulling her attention away from him. “Come then. We’ll keep you safe.”

  Whiskey allowed herself to be guided, hardly noticing that her backpack ended up on the shoulders of one of the men. Fiona held one hand, and the blonde supported her as they walked. The rest, except for Manuel, ranged around them in a loose circle. They flanked and surrounded her, leaving no escape. Whiskey couldn’t help but connect her situation to the book she’d recently read about children captured by some of the roughest Indians in the west who were either adopted into the tribe after a period of testing or killed before their arrival at camp. Whiskey limped into the unknown, resolving to make it through any tests these punks could come up with.

  Chapter Two

  The pain in Whiskey’s abdomen didn’t abate, making a ten-minute walk drag on for hours. She couldn’t stand straight which made the going rough. If she moved too fast, she stumbled beyond the blonde’s ability to keep her upright. The group paused while Fiona helped get Whiskey back on her feet, and moving. Something tickled along her right cheek. With her free hand she rubbed at it, fingers coming away with blood.

  “His ring,” the blonde said. “When he hit you.”

  “Which he’ll never have the opportunity to do again.” Fiona squeezed Whiskey’s hand. “We’re almost there.”

  Whiskey nodded, biting back a looming nausea. In light of her apparent safety, the adrenaline had fled her system. It left behind a shakiness she couldn’t afford. These people might have saved her ass, but they had no reason to do so, and weren’t harmless. She didn’t know who they were, or why they’d interfered. Heroes didn’t exist; everything came with a price.

  They broke through the trees onto a typical suburban street. Far off, a dog barked, and Whiskey heard the faint hiss of traffic from the highway in the distance. She hadn’t been here before, didn’t recognize the location, but she saw downtown Seattle over the rooftops. It looked like they were probably at Portage Bay rather than Lake Union. It eased her mind to know she remained near her territory, though she’d never succeed in a try for freedom. At this point, she could barely walk.

  Fiona directed them down a side street. Whiskey didn’t know what to expect. Most street punks she knew—herself included—lived hand to mouth, traveling on fo
ot. Her saviors had so much money invested in their clothing, she thought it possible they had a fleet of Harley-Davidsons with which to terrorize the city. Her stomach turned. She couldn’t imagine riding a motorcycle in her current condition. They stopped beside a black Lexus, and she weaved, blinking at the vehicle. These people were much more affluent than the kids they’d just dispatched. Paul’s attack on her had been motivated by anger and revenge. She’d kneed him in the nuts when they’d initially accosted her on the street; she expected nothing less of him. But what the hell do these people want?

  Fiona tugged gently on her hand, reaching to open the rear passenger door. “Come, my little lamma. We’ve a safe place for you.”

  Whiskey glanced around at the others. Her nerves were oddly soothed by the apparent disregard of the others. Only Fiona and the blonde seemed interested in her. The Goth woman argued softly with one of the two spiked mohawks while the other watched in boredom. At the trunk of the car, the third man held her pack, waiting to put it inside.

  “Who are you? Why did you help me?”

  Fiona gave another mock pout, and tsked under her breath. She released the door, and stepped in front of Whiskey, reaching up to caress her cheek. They were the same height, and Whiskey caught that reflected flash of gold in the woman’s eyes. Have to be contacts. She reminded herself that Fiona had just laid a boy’s face open with those fingers, and steadied herself. Damned if I’m going to flinch like he did.

  “They had an unfair advantage. We take care of our own. As for who we are, I told you my name. This is Cora showing such provocative attention to you. The man holding your belongings is Daniel; Alphonse is in deep discussion with Bronwyn; and my other colorful colleague is Zebediah.” She smiled. “And you, my sweetness, are my little lamma. Unless you have another name?”

  Whiskey stared at Fiona’s wolfish grin. Should she worry about the fingernails gently tracing her jaw, or be more concerned with the sudden image of Fiona ripping out her throat with those teeth? What does she mean, ‘taking care of their own’? That’s a crock of shit. They and Whiskey were worlds apart.