Punished Read online

  When I get there. Mary hadn’t been planning on going home. Mom and Dad are dead. She kept forgetting; it just sounded so strange, so unlikely. Leila is at home, all alone. That thought pierced her deeper than any other, tearing out her heart in small pieces.

  We’re alone. Alonealonealonealonealone.

  She hung up on the officer and cried. She cried and cried for years, until a lullaby in a strange language roused her. What a beautiful song.

  * * * *

  Raphael dug a claw into the armrest of the already beaten-up Land Rover, peeling away vinyl. Back in the early 1900s, when they’d first started buying cars, he’d been so excited by the invention he’d endeavored to take care of his T-bucket. He lovingly washed it and kept it serviced more than it required. It didn’t take him long to understand that having a nice car in New Orleans was akin to never seeing a flying cockroach—it simply wasn’t going to happen. Now, almost all of his pack’s vehicles were as beaten up as they could be. And the roads are worse than ever. He inwardly cursed as the SUV lurched, trembling, over another pothole.

  They were driving through an upscale neighborhood on Lake Ponchartrain, the homes shouting their infancy. The area had been ruined during Hurricane Katrina, and then painstakingly rebuilt. New buildings were not typical in this city, something Raphael let himself enjoy. It helped him feel less out of place, knowing New Orleans, too, was an immortal creature herself.

  He parked a few doors down from the strangely modern home that was their destination.

  “That it?” Heath asked.

  Raphael nodded. He didn’t see, hear or smell anything strange. He didn’t hear enough. There was sawdust in the air from construction about a mile away. A couple of cats and dogs prowled the yards. “I can’t smell any botos from here.” He used the term Aiyanna called the man who’d stabbed Mary.

  “What is a boto?” Heath asked, his mouth thinning.

  “I don’t know,” Raphael said. “But we’ll find out.”

  They entered the house through an unlocked side door. “Something’s wrong,” Heath murmured. “If they’re housing kidnapped women here, there’s no way they would leave a door unlocked.”

  “It smells like the river, and something else—”

  “Death,” Heath said. “Someone here is dead.”

  The house was empty. As they walked through a bare kitchen and living room, he checked the floor. It was dry. There was no water in the house, but he was certain river creatures lived there, probably shapeshifters as Alex suspected.

  Upstairs, each bedroom had a made-up, untouched bed and a set of shackles. The third bedroom was different. A blonde, lithe woman lay on the bed, bruises creating a necklace around her throat. Leon was crumpled on the floor, his head bent at an odd angle. Both humans were dead.

  The wrongness of killing creatures so much weaker, whose lives were already so short, sent waves of fury through Raphael. Leon had been pathetic for aiding the kidnapping of women, but he hadn’t wanted this for the mortal.

  The death of the woman sickened him. Her only sin was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it had cost her her life.

  Heath’s phone rang. He tilted it to Raphael, showing him Jeremiah’s number. “What?” Heath snapped impatiently.

  “That house on St. Charles, get back here now,” Jeremiah said.

  Raphael heard as if the call had been for him. He nodded.

  “I’ll be there,” Heath growled, hanging up.

  Ten minutes later, they were back at the house that still reeked of blood. Beneath it, he could barely detect the botos’ river water stench. Jeremiah stood at the doorway, shattered glass at his feet. His mouth was curled into a snarl.

  “Explain this to me,” he said as they followed him inside.

  A woman was sitting where the dead boto had been earlier, her head placed on a cushion beside her. Precise script flowed above her body, the color of dried blood. It read: YOU KILLED NATASHA. WE’LL KILL YOURS.

  It was a threat toward Mary.

  Raphael had never seen the dead woman before, but this had to be the woman Wish had asked about earlier, who Thérèse said to be dead.

  He would be blamed, again, for a death he hadn’t caused. This time he hadn’t so much as touched the human before her death. He felt the same about this woman as the one he’d seen, strangled, mere minutes earlier: Ill. Another senseless death at the hands of men who were always one step in front of him and the rest of his pack. These men knew what the consequences of killing a human would be for them.

  So how could Raphael not know a thing about the botos?

  Part of him wanted to rebel and fight for his life. He’d followed the rules, always. He hadn’t killed a human in over five hundred years. But I deserve to die. However they chose to kill him, for whatever reason they decided to, he would deserve it.

  He wished every innocent he’d ever harmed could watch him suffer, should it bring them peace. Each day he saw the faces of the children whose fathers he’d killed, the hatred of the men’s wives and siblings. He heard the sobs of the parents, frail with age, as they realized they wouldn’t outlive their child.

  He wasn’t good enough to be allowed to live, and hadn’t been for centuries.

  “I believe she’s dead,” he told Jeremiah, who had a short dagger at Raphael’s throat before he could blink.

  “You’re not denying,” Jeremiah growled, pressing until blood drew, “beheading an innocent woman?”

  Raphael said nothing. He wouldn’t lie, but he didn’t deserve to defend himself.

  “He killed no one,” Heath said.

  Jeremiah frowned, scrutinizing both of them. His eyes were like slivers of ice, utterly cold and unfeeling. “You understand that you may have gotten away with killing the other humans. I looked into it, and they might have deserved their fate, not that it was yours to give. Neither of you have rights. You’re not human, and you are not truly were.”

  Heath flinched at Jeremiah’s last words.

  Their lupus dux lifted his hands. Streams of water rushed into the room, turning into pencil-thin blades of ice. They flew at Raphael and Heath, catching their clothes and the edges of their bodies, pinning them to the wall.

  As he had gone immediately into exile after Hans forced the Wolf upon him, Raphael never received his full powers. While werewolves only became wolves on nights of the full moon, they could each command an element all the time. Rarely, someone could command more than just one element. That gift had been taken away from his pack, weakening them so they could be more easily controlled.

  “Do not try to move, or I will execute you both, Elders’ permission be damned,” Jeremiah continued. “Have you killed a human?” he asked Raphael.

  “Yes,” he answered honestly.

  Jeremiah narrowed his eyes, shook his head. “Have you killed a human within the past ten days?”

  Raphael met his gaze unwaveringly. He showed no pain, despite the ice starting to burn in the dozens of places it touched him. “I will take whatever punishment that’s dealt with no complaint. I expect no mercy.”

  “He’s killed no humans! None,” Heath shouted, jerking in his bonds. Raphael could see his blood streaming down the cream-colored wall.

  Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. “Are you willing to stake your life on it?”

  “Don’t do it.” Raphael met his friend’s eyes. “Don’t.”

  “I am.” Heath turned to Jeremiah.

  “So be it.” Jeremiah spread his hands. “I’ll bring this to the Elders, and if Raphael is found guilty of murdering humans, any humans, you will receive the same punishment as him.”

  Heath raised his chin. “I’d rather die defending a friend, an innocent friend, than live by stepping on the downtrodden. We’ve done our time. I know it’s because of you that we haven’t been freed yet.”

  Raphael looked at Heath sharply. There was an end to their exile?

  A blade of ice shot between Heath and Raphael, cutting deep into Heath’s cheek
. “There is nothing innocent about either of you,” Jeremiah spat.

  “That may be true,” Raphael said, “but we’ve been trying to stop harm toward true innocents. We require help.” When Jeremiah said nothing, his expression blank, Raphael pressed on. “Botos have been kidnapping females from around here and it needs to stop. We’ve been trying to help the problem, but the five of us may not be enough.”

  A supposed leader in justice for werewolves, Jeremiah laughed. “Of course they’re kidnapping women.” He smiled terribly. “That’s what encantados, botos as you call them, do. They feed from misery and pleasure, but especially both at once.”

  “You see nothing wrong with what they’re doing to human women?” Heath asked incredulously.

  “Have they touched a woman who is were?”

  “Not that I know of,” Raphael answered.

  “Then we have no problem. The packs can’t become involved,” Jeremiah said. “The way they treat humans is not our concern. What you do to them is, which is why you will both die.”

  The ice fell to the floor. Blood trickled freely from Raphael and Heath.

  “Do you know why they came here?” Jeremiah asked, the ice in his gaze sharpening.

  Raphael shook his head.

  “They know the strongest group of immortals, the weres, can’t do a damn thing to them here.”

  * * * *

  Leila was sitting on a fat chaise in the dressing room of a closed store where she couldn’t afford a single piece of clothing, including the small scraps of lace they marketed as bras. Not that she would ever wear such a thing. Are they supposed to go over bras?

  She’d been there for hours. The boredom was obviously getting to her, as was her curiosity. After everything Mary had done for her, she trusted that when her sister said to pack her things and get out, there was an explanation. She wondered if maybe Mary and Richard were having an affair, à la Mystic Pizza. The thing was, that wasn’t Mary’s style, never had been. So what happened?

  Before, well—not going to think about that—before Leila started college, Mary had been almost a completely different person. She hadn’t been selfish per se, but she’d never had to worry about anything, either. Neither of them had.

  Even when Leila contracted meningitis in the eighth grade and lost her hearing, she’d immediately received two cochlear implants and help from the best audiologists and speech-language pathologists in the southeast. What could have been a travesty brought their family closer together, each supporting one another in learning Signed Exact English, a sign language different from American Sign Language in that it was a code for English, not an entirely different language.

  With the help of her family, Leila could hear, speak and sign. She had done well in her private high school, had plenty of friends, and took as many dance classes as she could. She’d wanted for nothing, just as Mary had wanted for nothing, even when she’d been at LSU. They were happy.

  Now Mary was worried all the time. She had hollow cheeks and her clothes hung on her. She dyed the hair she always swore she would never touch. Worst of all, she emanated utter misery. Leila knew Mary had been worried during her first two years of college—money was tight, and Mary wouldn’t let her get a job so she could focus on her schoolwork. So Leila threw herself into it, never receiving less than an A in a class, making sure she practiced enough to always earn the parts she wanted in ballets and recitals.

  It had been hard, letting Mary take care of her, seeing the look of embarrassment on her face every time they entered their seedy old apartment. Leila hadn’t minded. They kept it clean and padlocked, so there were no problems. And if someone tried to hurt them, Leila could just—don’t think about it.

  Leila shook the thought from her head, holding the transmitters and processors attached to her as she did. She hadn’t been thrilled about moving to the Van Otterloos’ carriage house. She thought they were doing just fine under the circumstances. But her sister was so proud, so excited to be living somewhere similar to what they were used to—not that they’d been wealthy, by any means—Leila went, smiling, along with the plan.

  Almost immediately, she’d seen a change in Mary. No longer was she just tired from work, but upset and angry. Humiliated. Leila knew something was wrong in that house, and she knew trying to get Mary to discuss it wouldn’t work.

  Mary was so stubborn, she could probably make any politician back down from their own cause. She was set on the house and the money, and that was that.

  Leila would rather have struggled with money like before and seen her sister happy than have fancy endowed scholarships and extra spending money like they did now. Well, we had extra spending money.

  She caved and tried on the dress she’d been eyeing. Truthfully, she was glad to have any reason to leave. Another few months working for that crazy ass family may have killed Mary.

  Someone knocked on the door. It had to be Alexandre, the sexy Nordic-looking man who crashed at their house last night after apparently escorting her very drunk self home. She’d been so relieved when he called to tell her Mary was safe and she’d asked him to come get her.

  She hurried to change back into her clothes before she went to the door, her right hand fluttering to her chest to sign an apology for having it locked.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said. His voice was ridiculously deep, his smile grim. That morning, he’d been downright jolly.

  What happened? she signed, worry dawning.

  “Mary was hurt,” he said. “But she’ll be fine, I promise you.”

  In her panic, her anger, red bloomed in her vision.

  How badly was she hurt?

  “If we hadn’t found her, she would have died.” Alex’s gaze was soft, comforting. Leila had just enough self-control to shove him through the door, out of the store before she slammed it shut.

  She did something she hadn’t let herself do since her parents’ death. She opened her mouth and screamed.

  The store rumbled and shattered around her.

  * * * *

  Mary woke to a dull, throbbing pain in her throat that was quickly overshadowed by the sharp sting in her leg. She lay in a sparsely furnished room with beige walls, a black dresser and the bed she was currently tucked into. Pulling the sheets around her, she smelled soap with just a hint of spice. Was this Raphael’s bedroom? Impossible.

  Yet the male in question strode into the room with an impatient air, as if he’d been waiting for her to stir from sleep.

  Raphael surprised her—he perched at the very end corner of the bed, as far from her as possible, tense as can be.

  “Do you know where Leila is?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse, rough.

  “She’s here, sleeping,” he said. Relief rushed over Mary, a balm to all her other concerns. The list of what she should be worried about was endless, beginning with the fact that they were homeless, again.

  She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and then looked up at Raphael. “So you saved me, huh?” she asked, trying not to cringe. She hated the thought of having to be saved, but she’d needed it. I was so in over my head.

  Raphael looked surprised. “You saved yourself. We only came in and made sure you were healed.”

  The screaming, her screaming. “Did I kill them?” She hoped she had, and it came through in her voice. People had to stop messing with her and her family. They’d been through enough.

  Raphael’s full lips twisted into a slight smile. “You killed the man who stabbed you, but you only hurt the others.”

  “Gaspar’s dead.” She sighed, nodded. “That’s something.” At his raised eyebrows, she added, “Trust me, you wouldn’t blame me if you knew him.”

  “May I move closer to you?” he asked, his tentative voice at odds with his intimidating presence. The question soothed her frayed nerves, assuring her he wouldn’t touch her unless invited to. Her lack of anxiety was so foreign to her, she felt weightless.

  At her nod, he slid down the bed to sit next to her. She scooted
over to give the massive man more room. He settled beside her. His long legs were dusted with dark hair, extending a foot past where hers ended. She breathed in his clean scent.

  For a moment, they were silent as they sat so close. She looked over, and he was watching her intently, almost curiously. “Mary, what did they do to you?” he asked softly.

  As previous night’s events rolled through her memory, she decided to go with the truth. Raphael’s honesty had saved Leila untold horror; the least she could do was answer his question.

  “I was hit, stabbed, fed a strange herb, and they attempted to do some sort of mind control voodoo that did not work in the slightest,” she said in a rush. The veins in his neck and arms stood out, and he released a menacing growl.

  Absently, she took his hand and palmed it between hers. It was the second time she’d reached out to hold it, and she liked it. The way he almost instantly relaxed at her touch made her want to pump a fist in the air. “I’m not after revenge,” she told him in a whisper. “I have too many problems to add those pervs to the list.” She meant it. She couldn’t afford to focus on men like Richard and Gaspar.

  “What problems do you have?”

  At her silence, he squeezed her hand, his expression imploring. “I’m homeless now,” she said, embarrassment heating her cheeks. “I also have no form of income. One of the men who hurt me was my boss—he used to let my sister and I stay in his little guest cottage.”

  Raphael raised a hand to her face, and gently traced the cheekbone Richard hit. She felt her shoulders sag; she must look like a complete mess.

  “You’re beautiful,” Raphael said. “What was done to you was—” He paused, shaking his head angrily. “You have to know that nothing has taken away your spirit, from the way you fought back against those men. I’ve seen hardened soldiers taken down by less than what was done to you. “You will stay here,” he announced. “Over half of the rooms here are empty, so there is no reason for you or your sister to leave.”