From Amazon
When two desperate witches lure part-time journalist and full-time werewolf Elena Michaels into a carefully laid trap, she quickly learns that her perceptions about humanity are based on some fundamental flaws. In Kelley Armstrong's supernatural thriller, Stolen, the world is populated with vampires, demons, half-demons, magical shamans, and other supernatural races living anonymously among the human population--a concept that Elena has a hard time accepting, just as she struggled with her own lupine identity in Armstrong's remarkable debut, Bitten. But when Elena returns to her werewolf pack in upstate New York, pack leader Jeremy reveals that the threat people pose to the supernatural races should not be taken lightly. When Jeremy, Elena, and her lover Clay decide to take action to protect their pack, Elena gets kidnapped on the orders of a power-crazed billionaire. While being held captive she learns that while some magical beings are good and some evil, none are capable of more outright cruelty and savage betrayal than ordinary, non-magical human beings.
Armstrong actively solicited reader input via her web site while writing the second title of her Women of the Otherworld series. This unconventional creative strategy sheds light on Armstrong's justified literary confidence. Her large cast of characters is fully realized, despite their great diversity, which ranges from insecure research scientists to unreliable half-demons, as well as Paige, an orphaned and highly volatile adolescent witch. Most gratifyingly, Armstrong's horror is tempered with a sly and very satisfying dose of humour: "Across the room was the Ladies Auxiliary snack table," Armstrong describes Elena's first impression of a conference of supernaturals under attack.
The only thing missing was a blue-haired matron doling out goodies and guarding her cash box.... On the rear wall, a handwritten sign reminded snackers that coffee and doughnuts were a quarter each, followed by a red line clarifying that this meant fifty cents for both a doughnut and coffee.... I really hoped the Legion folks were responsible for the goodies and the sign. Otherwise... well, I didn't want to consider the alternative.
--Deirdre Hanna
From Publishers Weekly
Elena Michaels, the only known female werewolf, cavorts on a more fully cultivated supernatural playing field in this sure-footed follow-up to Bitten (2001). While investigating a suspicious notice advertising information for sale about werewolves, Elena meets witches Paige and Ruth Winterbourne-and, to her misfortune, a team of mortal and supernatural commandos who abduct Elena and Ruth to a remote underground bunker in the wilds of Maine. There Ty Winsloe, "billionaire and computer geek extraordinaire," is collecting a menagerie representing all the supernatural species that coexist anonymously with humanity (vampires, werewolves, witches, etc.). While his scientists study such creatures in the hope of distilling their uncanny powers as salable commodities, Winsloe hunts those captives who have outlived their usefulness in cruel most-dangerous-game fashion. Elena's efforts to outsmart Winsloe long enough to apprise her Pack of her whereabouts are complicated by a werewolf wannabe among the captors. Though the tale is pretty much a prison-break story spiffed up with magic, Armstrong leavens the narrative with brisk action and intriguing dollops of werewolf culture that suggest a complex and richly imagined anthropologic backstory. The sassy, pumped-up Elena makes a perfect hardboiled horror heroine, with enough engaging attitude to compensate for the loose ends left untied to set up her next adventure.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.
Review
Praise for Bitten:
“. . . it’s as smooth as cream all the way, sure to gain fans.” -- Kirkus Reviews
“[An] impressive debut thriller. . . . Kelley Armstrong is very good on the sheer exhilaration of shape-changing, of running on four feet through forests, suburban greenery and urban back alleys.” -- Amazon UK
"[I]t's terrific. I'm a sucker for this kind of novel anyway, and the heroine is the most appealing I have come across in ages. It's clever, quirky, hip and funny, skating between genres with style and grace. More please!" -- Joanne Harris
'There is nothing overtly gothic about this fast-paced, sexy thriller and its model contemporary heroine -- it's just that she's a werewolf who is trying to make a go of things among humans. -- Bookseller (UK)
"A hair-raising story for the she-wolf in us all." -- Shannon Olson, author of Welcome to My Planet: Where English Is Sometimes Spoken
“Armstrong has created a breathless, sexy story . . . gorgeous and grotesque in the best sense of the word. Rumors of a sequel have never been better news.” -- Boulder Weekly
“Bitten is hip and postmodern. . . . Those who enjoy the vampire books of Anne Rice, or Canadian vampire writer Nancy Kilpatrick, will love it.” -- The Globe and Mail
“Fast and entertaining. . . . Surely one of the sexiest, most energetic novels published in a long time.” -- The Gazette (Montreal)
“Filled with romance and supernatural intrigue, this book will surely remind readers of Anne Rice’s sophisticated refurbishings of the vampire story.” -- Publishers Weekly
“Wicked writing gets noticed, and ½rst-time novelist Kelley Armstrong has written a deliciously wicked book.” -- Toronto Star
“Bitten is a lightning-paced, violent and completely readable entertainment that entertains loudly and abundantly.” -- The Hamilton Spectator
“. . . it’s as smooth as cream all the way, sure to gain fans.” -- Kirkus Reviews
“[An] impressive debut thriller. . . . Kelley Armstrong is very good on the sheer exhilaration of shape-changing, of running on four feet through forests, suburban greenery and urban back alleys.” -- Amazon UK
"[I]t's terrific. I'm a sucker for this kind of novel anyway, and the heroine is the most appealing I have come across in ages. It's clever, quirky, hip and funny, skating between genres with style and grace. More please!" -- Joanne Harris
'There is nothing overtly gothic about this fast-paced, sexy thriller and its model contemporary heroine -- it's just that she's a werewolf who is trying to make a go of things among humans. -- Bookseller (UK)
"A hair-raising story for the she-wolf in us all." -- Shannon Olson, author of Welcome to My Planet: Where English Is Sometimes Spoken
“Armstrong has created a breathless, sexy story . . . gorgeous and grotesque in the best sense of the word. Rumors of a sequel have never been better news.” -- Boulder Weekly
“Bitten is hip and postmodern. . . . Those who enjoy the vampire books of Anne Rice, or Canadian vampire writer Nancy Kilpatrick, will love it.” -- The Globe and Mail
“Fast and entertaining. . . . Surely one of the sexiest, most energetic novels published in a long time.” -- The Gazette (Montreal)
“Filled with romance and supernatural intrigue, this book will surely remind readers of Anne Rice’s sophisticated refurbishings of the vampire story.” -- Publishers Weekly
“Wicked writing gets noticed, and ½rst-time novelist Kelley Armstrong has written a deliciously wicked book.” -- Toronto Star
“Bitten is a lightning-paced, violent and completely readable entertainment that entertains loudly and abundantly.” -- The Hamilton Spectator
Book Description
In the tradition of Laurell K. Hamilton, a deliciously wicked sequel to Bitten, from Canada's new queen of suspense.
Even though she's the world's only female werewolf, Elena Michaels is just a regular girl at heart -- with larger than normal appetites. She sticks to three feasts a day, loves long runs in the moonlight, and has a lover who is unbelievable frustrating yet all the more sexy for his dark side. Like every regular girl, she certainly doesn't believe in witches. Then again, when two small, ridiculously feminine women manage to hurl her against a wall, and then save her from the hunters on her tail, Elena realizes that maybe there are more things in heaven and earth than she's dreamt of.
Vampires, demons, shamans, witches -- in Stolen they all exist, and they're all under attack. An obsessed tycoon with a sick curiosity is well on his way to amassing a private collection of supernaturals, and plans to harness their powers for himself -- even if it means killing them. For Elena, kidnapped and imprisoned deep underground, separated from her Pack, unable to tell her friends from her enemies, choosing the right allies is a matter of life and death.
Even though she's the world's only female werewolf, Elena Michaels is just a regular girl at heart -- with larger than normal appetites. She sticks to three feasts a day, loves long runs in the moonlight, and has a lover who is unbelievable frustrating yet all the more sexy for his dark side. Like every regular girl, she certainly doesn't believe in witches. Then again, when two small, ridiculously feminine women manage to hurl her against a wall, and then save her from the hunters on her tail, Elena realizes that maybe there are more things in heaven and earth than she's dreamt of.
Vampires, demons, shamans, witches -- in Stolen they all exist, and they're all under attack. An obsessed tycoon with a sick curiosity is well on his way to amassing a private collection of supernaturals, and plans to harness their powers for himself -- even if it means killing them. For Elena, kidnapped and imprisoned deep underground, separated from her Pack, unable to tell her friends from her enemies, choosing the right allies is a matter of life and death.
From the Back Cover
Praise for Bitten:
“. . . it’s as smooth as cream all the way, sure to gain fans.” -- Kirkus Reviews
“[An] impressive debut thriller. . . . Kelley Armstrong is very good on the sheer exhilaration of shape-changing, of running on four feet through forests, suburban greenery and urban back alleys.” -- Amazon UK
"[I]t's terrific. I'm a sucker for this kind of novel anyway, and the heroine is the most appealing I have come across in ages. It's clever, quirky, hip and funny, skating between genres with style and grace. More please!" -- Joanne Harris
'There is nothing overtly gothic about this fast-paced, sexy thriller and its model contemporary heroine -- it's just that she's a werewolf who is trying to make a go of things among humans. -- Bookseller (UK)
"A hair-raising story for the she-wolf in us all." -- Shannon Olson, author of Welcome to My Planet: Where English Is Sometimes Spoken
“. . . it’s as smooth as cream all the way, sure to gain fans.” -- Kirkus Reviews
“[An] impressive debut thriller. . . . Kelley Armstrong is very good on the sheer exhilaration of shape-changing, of running on four feet through forests, suburban greenery and urban back alleys.” -- Amazon UK
"[I]t's terrific. I'm a sucker for this kind of novel anyway, and the heroine is the most appealing I have come across in ages. It's clever, quirky, hip and funny, skating between genres with style and grace. More please!" -- Joanne Harris
'There is nothing overtly gothic about this fast-paced, sexy thriller and its model contemporary heroine -- it's just that she's a werewolf who is trying to make a go of things among humans. -- Bookseller (UK)
"A hair-raising story for the she-wolf in us all." -- Shannon Olson, author of Welcome to My Planet: Where English Is Sometimes Spoken
About the Author
Kelley Armstrong lives in rural Ontario with her husband, three children and far too many pets. She is the author of Bitten, the first novel featuring Elena Michaels.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Prologue
He hated the forest. Hated its eternal pockets of damp and darkness. Hated its endless tangle of trees and bushes. Hated its smell of decay -- dead vegetation, dead animals, everything dying, even the living creatures incessantly pursuing their next meal, one failure away from the slow descent into death. Soon his body would be one more stink fouling the air, maybe buried, maybe left for the carrion feeders, his death postponing theirs for another day. He would die. He knew that, not with the single-minded intent of the suicidal or the hopeless despair of the doomed, but with the simple acceptance of a man who knows he is only hours from passing out of this world into the next. Here in this stinking, dark, damp hell of a place, he would die.
He didn’t seek death. If he could, he’d avoid it. But he couldn’t. He’d tried, planning his breakout for days, conserving his energy, forcing himself to eat, to sleep. Then he’d escaped, surprising himself really. He’d never truly believed it would work. Of course, it hadn’t actually worked, just appeared to, like a mirage shimmering in the desert, only the oasis hadn’t turned to sand and sun, but damp and dark. He’d escaped the compound to find himself in the forest. Still hopeful, he’d run. And run. And gone nowhere. They were coming now. Hunting him.
He could hear the hound baying, fast on his trail. There must be ways to trick it, but he had no idea how. Born and raised in the city, he knew how to avoid detection there, how to become invisible in plain sight, how to effect an appearance so mediocre that people could stare right at him and see no one. He knew how to greet neighbors in his apartment building, eyes lowered, a brief nod, no words, so if anyone asked about the occupants of 412, no one really knew who lived there: Was that the elderly couple? The young family? The blind girl? Never rude or friendly enough to attract attention, disappearing in a sea of people too intent on their own lives to notice his. There he was a master of invisibility. But here, in the forest? He hadn’t set foot in one since he was ten, when his parents finally despaired of ever making an outdoorsman out of him and let him stay with his grandmother while his siblings went hiking and camping. He was lost here. Completely lost. The hound would find him and the hunters would kill him.
“You won’t help me, will you?” he said, speaking the words in his mind.
For a long moment, Qiona didn’t reply. He could sense her, the spirit who guided him, in the back corner of his mind, the farthest she ever went from him since she’d first made herself known when he was a child too young to speak.
“Do you want me to?” she asked finally.
“You won’t. Even if I want it. This is what you want. For me to join you. You won’t stop that.”
The hound started to sing, joy infusing its voice with melody as it closed in on its target. Someone shouted.
Qiona sighed, the sound fluttering like a breeze through his mind. “What do you want me to do?”
“Which way is out?” he asked.
More silence. More shouts.
“That way,” she said.
He knew which way she meant, though he couldn’t see her. An ayami had presence and substance but no form, an idea impossible to explain to anyone who wasn’t a shaman and as easy for a shaman to understand as the concept of water or sky.
Turning left, he ran. Branches whipped his face and bare chest and arms, raising welts like the marks of a flagellant. And equally self-inflicted, he thought. Part of him wanted to stop. Give up. Accept. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t ready to surrender his life yet. Simple human pleasures still held too much allure: English muffins with butter and strawberry jam at the Talbot Café, the second-story balcony, farthest table on the left, the sun on his forearms, tattered mystery novel in one hand, coffee mug in the other, people yelling, laughing on the busy street below. Silly things, Qiona would sniff. She was jealous, of course, as she was of anything she couldn’t share, anything that kept him bound to his body. He did want to join her, but not yet. Not just yet. So he ran.
“Stop running,” Qiona said.
He ignored her.
“Slow down,” she said. “Pace yourself.”
He ignored her.
She withdrew, her anger a flash fire in his brain, bright and hot, then smoldering, waiting to flare again. He’d stopped hearing the hound, but only because his blood pounded too loudly. His lungs blazed. Each breath scorched through him, like swallowing fire. He ignored it. That was easy. He ignored most of his body’s commands, from hunger to sex to pain. His body was only a vehicle, a medium for transmitting things like strawberry jam, laughter, and sunlight to his soul. Now after a lifetime of ignoring his body, he asked it to save him and it didn’t know how. From behind him came the bay of the hound. Was it louder now? Closer?
“Climb a tree,” Qiona said.
“It’s not the dog I’m afraid of. It’s the men.”
“Slow down then. Turn. Confuse them. You’re making a straight trail. Slow down.”
He couldn’t. The end of the forest was near. It had to be. His only chance was to get there before the dog did. Ignoring the pain, he summoned every remaining vestige of strength and shot forward.
“Slow down!” Qiona shouted. “Watch -- ”
His left foot hit a small rise, but he adjusted, throwing his right foot out for balance. Yet his right foot came down on empty air. As he pitched forward, he saw the streambed below, at the bottom of a small gully eroded by decades of water flow. He flipped over the edge of it, convulsed in midair, trying to think of how to land without injury, but again he didn’t know how. As he hit the gravel below, he heard the hound. Heard its song of triumph so loud his eardrums threatened to split. Twisting to get up, he saw three canine heads come over the gully edge, one hound, two massive guard dogs. The hound lifted its head and bayed. The other two paused only a second, then leaped.
“Get out!” Qiona screamed. “Get out now!”
No! He wasn’t ready to leave. He resisted the urge to throw his soul free of his body, clenching himself into a ball as if that would keep it in. He saw the undersides of the dogs as they flew off the cliff. One landed atop him, knocking out his last bit of breath. Teeth dug into his forearm. He felt a tremendous wrenching. Then he soared upward. Qiona was dragging him from his body, away from the pain of dying.
“Don’t look back,” she said.
Of course, he did. He had to know. As he looked down, he saw the dogs. The hound was still at the top of the gully, howling and waiting for the men. The two other dogs didn’t wait. They tore his body apart in a shower of blood and flesh.
“No,” he moaned. “No.”
Qiona comforted him with whispers and kisses, pleaded with him to look away. She’d tried to save him from the pain, but she couldn’t. He felt it as he looked down at the dogs destroying his body, felt not the pain of their teeth, but the agony of unbelievable loss and grief. It was over. All over.
“If I hadn’t tripped,” he said. “If I’d run faster . . .”
Qiona turned him then, so he could look out across the forest. The expanse of trees went on and on, ending in a road so far away the cars looked like bugs crawling across the earth. He glanced back at his body, a mangled mess of blood and bone. The men stepped from the forest. He ignored them. They didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did. He turned to Qiona and let her take him away.
* * * * *
“Dead,” Tucker said to Matasumi as he walked into the cell-block guard station. He scraped the mud of the forest off his boots. “Dogs got him before we did.”
“I told you I wanted him alive.”
“And I told you we need more hounds. Rottweilers are for guarding, not hunting. A hound will wait for the hunter. A rottie kills. Doesn’t know how to do anything else.” Tucker removed his boots and laid them on the mat, perfectly aligned with the wall, laces tucked in. Then he took an identical but clean pair and pulled them on. “Can’t see how it matters much. Guy was half-dead anyway. Weak. Useless.”
“He was a shaman,” Matasumi said. “Shamans don’t need to be Olympic athletes. All their power is in their mind.”
Tucker snorted. “And it did him a whole lotta good against those dogs, let me tell you. They didn’t leave a piece of him bigger than my fist.”
As Matasumi turned, someone swung open the door and clipped him in the chin.
“Whoops,” Winsloe said with a grin. “Sorry, old man. Damn things need windows.”
Bauer brushed past him. “Where’s the shaman?”
“He didn’t . . . survive,” Matasumi said.
“Dogs,” Tucker added.
Bauer shook her head and kept walking. A guard grabbed the interior door, holding it open as she walked through. Winsloe and the guard trailed after her. Matasumi brought up the rear. Tucker stayed at the guard station, presumably to discipline whoever had let the shaman escape, though the others didn’t bother to ask. Such details were beneath them. That’s why they’d hired Tucker.
The next door was thick steel with an elongated handle. Bauer paused in front of a small camera. A beam scanned her retina. One of the two lights above the door flashed green. The other stayed red until she grasped the door handle and the sensor checked her handprint. When the second light turned g...
He hated the forest. Hated its eternal pockets of damp and darkness. Hated its endless tangle of trees and bushes. Hated its smell of decay -- dead vegetation, dead animals, everything dying, even the living creatures incessantly pursuing their next meal, one failure away from the slow descent into death. Soon his body would be one more stink fouling the air, maybe buried, maybe left for the carrion feeders, his death postponing theirs for another day. He would die. He knew that, not with the single-minded intent of the suicidal or the hopeless despair of the doomed, but with the simple acceptance of a man who knows he is only hours from passing out of this world into the next. Here in this stinking, dark, damp hell of a place, he would die.
He didn’t seek death. If he could, he’d avoid it. But he couldn’t. He’d tried, planning his breakout for days, conserving his energy, forcing himself to eat, to sleep. Then he’d escaped, surprising himself really. He’d never truly believed it would work. Of course, it hadn’t actually worked, just appeared to, like a mirage shimmering in the desert, only the oasis hadn’t turned to sand and sun, but damp and dark. He’d escaped the compound to find himself in the forest. Still hopeful, he’d run. And run. And gone nowhere. They were coming now. Hunting him.
He could hear the hound baying, fast on his trail. There must be ways to trick it, but he had no idea how. Born and raised in the city, he knew how to avoid detection there, how to become invisible in plain sight, how to effect an appearance so mediocre that people could stare right at him and see no one. He knew how to greet neighbors in his apartment building, eyes lowered, a brief nod, no words, so if anyone asked about the occupants of 412, no one really knew who lived there: Was that the elderly couple? The young family? The blind girl? Never rude or friendly enough to attract attention, disappearing in a sea of people too intent on their own lives to notice his. There he was a master of invisibility. But here, in the forest? He hadn’t set foot in one since he was ten, when his parents finally despaired of ever making an outdoorsman out of him and let him stay with his grandmother while his siblings went hiking and camping. He was lost here. Completely lost. The hound would find him and the hunters would kill him.
“You won’t help me, will you?” he said, speaking the words in his mind.
For a long moment, Qiona didn’t reply. He could sense her, the spirit who guided him, in the back corner of his mind, the farthest she ever went from him since she’d first made herself known when he was a child too young to speak.
“Do you want me to?” she asked finally.
“You won’t. Even if I want it. This is what you want. For me to join you. You won’t stop that.”
The hound started to sing, joy infusing its voice with melody as it closed in on its target. Someone shouted.
Qiona sighed, the sound fluttering like a breeze through his mind. “What do you want me to do?”
“Which way is out?” he asked.
More silence. More shouts.
“That way,” she said.
He knew which way she meant, though he couldn’t see her. An ayami had presence and substance but no form, an idea impossible to explain to anyone who wasn’t a shaman and as easy for a shaman to understand as the concept of water or sky.
Turning left, he ran. Branches whipped his face and bare chest and arms, raising welts like the marks of a flagellant. And equally self-inflicted, he thought. Part of him wanted to stop. Give up. Accept. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t ready to surrender his life yet. Simple human pleasures still held too much allure: English muffins with butter and strawberry jam at the Talbot Café, the second-story balcony, farthest table on the left, the sun on his forearms, tattered mystery novel in one hand, coffee mug in the other, people yelling, laughing on the busy street below. Silly things, Qiona would sniff. She was jealous, of course, as she was of anything she couldn’t share, anything that kept him bound to his body. He did want to join her, but not yet. Not just yet. So he ran.
“Stop running,” Qiona said.
He ignored her.
“Slow down,” she said. “Pace yourself.”
He ignored her.
She withdrew, her anger a flash fire in his brain, bright and hot, then smoldering, waiting to flare again. He’d stopped hearing the hound, but only because his blood pounded too loudly. His lungs blazed. Each breath scorched through him, like swallowing fire. He ignored it. That was easy. He ignored most of his body’s commands, from hunger to sex to pain. His body was only a vehicle, a medium for transmitting things like strawberry jam, laughter, and sunlight to his soul. Now after a lifetime of ignoring his body, he asked it to save him and it didn’t know how. From behind him came the bay of the hound. Was it louder now? Closer?
“Climb a tree,” Qiona said.
“It’s not the dog I’m afraid of. It’s the men.”
“Slow down then. Turn. Confuse them. You’re making a straight trail. Slow down.”
He couldn’t. The end of the forest was near. It had to be. His only chance was to get there before the dog did. Ignoring the pain, he summoned every remaining vestige of strength and shot forward.
“Slow down!” Qiona shouted. “Watch -- ”
His left foot hit a small rise, but he adjusted, throwing his right foot out for balance. Yet his right foot came down on empty air. As he pitched forward, he saw the streambed below, at the bottom of a small gully eroded by decades of water flow. He flipped over the edge of it, convulsed in midair, trying to think of how to land without injury, but again he didn’t know how. As he hit the gravel below, he heard the hound. Heard its song of triumph so loud his eardrums threatened to split. Twisting to get up, he saw three canine heads come over the gully edge, one hound, two massive guard dogs. The hound lifted its head and bayed. The other two paused only a second, then leaped.
“Get out!” Qiona screamed. “Get out now!”
No! He wasn’t ready to leave. He resisted the urge to throw his soul free of his body, clenching himself into a ball as if that would keep it in. He saw the undersides of the dogs as they flew off the cliff. One landed atop him, knocking out his last bit of breath. Teeth dug into his forearm. He felt a tremendous wrenching. Then he soared upward. Qiona was dragging him from his body, away from the pain of dying.
“Don’t look back,” she said.
Of course, he did. He had to know. As he looked down, he saw the dogs. The hound was still at the top of the gully, howling and waiting for the men. The two other dogs didn’t wait. They tore his body apart in a shower of blood and flesh.
“No,” he moaned. “No.”
Qiona comforted him with whispers and kisses, pleaded with him to look away. She’d tried to save him from the pain, but she couldn’t. He felt it as he looked down at the dogs destroying his body, felt not the pain of their teeth, but the agony of unbelievable loss and grief. It was over. All over.
“If I hadn’t tripped,” he said. “If I’d run faster . . .”
Qiona turned him then, so he could look out across the forest. The expanse of trees went on and on, ending in a road so far away the cars looked like bugs crawling across the earth. He glanced back at his body, a mangled mess of blood and bone. The men stepped from the forest. He ignored them. They didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did. He turned to Qiona and let her take him away.
* * * * *
“Dead,” Tucker said to Matasumi as he walked into the cell-block guard station. He scraped the mud of the forest off his boots. “Dogs got him before we did.”
“I told you I wanted him alive.”
“And I told you we need more hounds. Rottweilers are for guarding, not hunting. A hound will wait for the hunter. A rottie kills. Doesn’t know how to do anything else.” Tucker removed his boots and laid them on the mat, perfectly aligned with the wall, laces tucked in. Then he took an identical but clean pair and pulled them on. “Can’t see how it matters much. Guy was half-dead anyway. Weak. Useless.”
“He was a shaman,” Matasumi said. “Shamans don’t need to be Olympic athletes. All their power is in their mind.”
Tucker snorted. “And it did him a whole lotta good against those dogs, let me tell you. They didn’t leave a piece of him bigger than my fist.”
As Matasumi turned, someone swung open the door and clipped him in the chin.
“Whoops,” Winsloe said with a grin. “Sorry, old man. Damn things need windows.”
Bauer brushed past him. “Where’s the shaman?”
“He didn’t . . . survive,” Matasumi said.
“Dogs,” Tucker added.
Bauer shook her head and kept walking. A guard grabbed the interior door, holding it open as she walked through. Winsloe and the guard trailed after her. Matasumi brought up the rear. Tucker stayed at the guard station, presumably to discipline whoever had let the shaman escape, though the others didn’t bother to ask. Such details were beneath them. That’s why they’d hired Tucker.
The next door was thick steel with an elongated handle. Bauer paused in front of a small camera. A beam scanned her retina. One of the two lights above the door flashed green. The other stayed red until she grasped the door handle and the sensor checked her handprint. When the second light turned g...
