Callie's Guardian: White Tigers of Brigantia (Book 1) by Lisa Daniels (68)

Chapter One

Isabelle woke up with a stabbing headache.  Surprise coursed through her, along with a dose of fear.  Matted red hair clung to her face.  Chains held her arms against the wall.  A faint light illuminated a decrepit, filthy room smeared with dust, an assortment of boxes and old, unused items – and another person, also chained in the room.

He stared directly at Isabelle, nostrils flaring.  A bolt of terror made Isabelle shrink back, her breathing becoming faster, her heart stuttering.  Golden eyes blinked languidly at her reaction.

A werewolf.  I'm chained in here with a werewolf.  Fuck!

This led her thoughts to the events that brought her here.  Terror laced her brain, and she frantically scoured over her body.  They'd been on her.  If she'd been bitten, she was as good as dead.  Humans started raving within an hour of infection, as it corrupted their cells.  Dark red crusts of dried blood raked along her arms.  Her shoulder throbbed, her calves ached, and a lancing pain animated her lower back, where the collection of nerves resided.

“You've not been bitten,” the werewolf offered, absently clanking against the chains that held him tight.  Isabelle shrank away from him, even though a substantial distance lay between them, and she began to hyperventilate.  He looked at her then in utter bewilderment, and a little disdain.  “Oh, please.  What do you think I'm going to do like this, hunter?  I'm as much a prisoner as you are.”  His voice held a clipped accent to it, and resonated through the dimly lit basement.  Sharp, angular features, with a noble nose, a refined jawline concealed by an ungainly spurt of yellowed facial hair and sunken cheekbones, suggesting a lack of food, contrasted with his lank hair.

He looked European, possibly Scandinavian in origin.  Not that this particularly mattered to Isabelle at this point in time, given that she didn't want to associate with werewolves in the slightest.

“How do you know I'm a hunter?” she asked, after a pregnant pause between them.  She had utilized the time to access her surroundings, realizing the futility of her current position.

The werewolf appeared offended at the question.  “Aside from the fact that you're a human and you killed about seven werewolves up above – awesome job, by the way – you're packing a lot of vanadium and weaponry for a normal human who isn't supposed to know about werewolves.  Plus, there's the raving and muttering of 'Werewolves!  They should all die!' happening in your sleep.  You talk really loud.”

Isabelle gaped at the chatty werewolf, baffled by his attitude.  The golden eyes crinkled.  Now that she'd had time to process her predicament, a question popped to mind.  “Why are you here?  Why has your kind chained you up?”

The werewolf snorted.  “Glad you asked.  And in answer to that – let's just say me and the wolfies up above aren't on best buddy terms.”  The werewolf clearly relished having someone to talk to, and insisted on yammering her ear off.

“My alpha's in another country at the moment.  With his human girlfriend, trying to find the werewolf that killed her family.  Nice of him, really.  Definitely someone I can get behind, cause-wise.  Except of course, didn't really expect the rival invasion of the werewolves who are less than happy with this region's alpha.  They were most disappointed to not find him here to kill.  Found me, though.”  He paused a moment, eyebrows popping up.

“How rude of me.  I almost forgot my manners.  I'm Milev Spirova.  The alpha's my uncle's mother's, uh... nephew.  I'm not sure where in the spectrum we're related.  Cousin twice removed?  Grand half-nephew?  I can never get it right.”

Isabelle groaned, trying to stretch her muscles, to wake herself up better.  Her throat scraped as she talked, reminding her how parched she was.  “Don't talk like you're some kind of normal creature, scum.  I know exactly what you are.  A murderer.  A monster.”

“Rude,” Milev said.  “I'm no monster.  I'm just a simple werewolf trying to make his way in the world.  Without chomping on anyone.  So far, so good.  Well, until I ended up here.”

Isabelle blocked her ears to his inane talk, irritated beyond reason, which did have the positive effect of burning away her fear.  Her guts crawled in resentment of the creature daring to talk to her like that, as if she was a friend he hadn't met yet, rather than his next meal.

Not that she wanted to be talked to like a piece of meat, but it fit in with her world view of werewolves better.  Her head ached, struggling to process his manner. 

“Liar.  You and your kind are all the same.  I've never met one who hasn't turned out to be seriously twisted on the inside.”

“You must live in a fishbowl,” Milev said.  “If that's the conclusion you've reached.  What happened to you, then?  Your parents get chewed on when you were a kid?  You joined a group of people who talk shit about werewolves all day long and you decide that it's a good idea to kill them all?”

Incandescent loathing dominated Isabelle's mind.  She bared her teeth at him.  “Shut up.”

“You know who else did that shit?  Nazis.  You know who does that shit a lot?  Racist people.  You're a racist.”

The hatred toppled down in place of mild panic from his contradicting views.  “Shut the fuck up.”

“Nope,” Milev said, grinning impishly.  “You're stuck here with me.  And I've been very, very bored.”

Isabelle screamed at him, shaking her chains and kicking her legs.  It did nothing than to make her throat sore, and to make her feel childish and foolish when the werewolf merely blinked at her.

“Wow.  Tantrum.  Okay.”  Milev shook his head, the amiable expression on his face fading. 

There was blessed silence for a few moments, where Isabelle could happily tune out the presence of the werewolf opposite her, to focus on her pain, her memories, and decide upon what she needed to do next.

“Everyone's a monster on the inside, human,” Milev said then, cutting through the bleakness of her thoughts.  She snapped her eyes open. 

He wants a discussion?  I'll give him one. “Perhaps.  But your kind are actual monsters.  You feed upon humans.”

“Do you know what a cannibal is?”

Isabelle blinked, taken off guard by the deflective question.  “What's that got to do with anything?”

“Just answer.  Do you know what a cannibal is?”

“I don't see how –”

“It's a human that eats other humans.  That's what a cannibal is.  No gold star for you, you failed to answer.” Milev yawned, scratching at his armpit.  “Now, would you say that a cannibal is a monster?  Yes?  No?”

Isabelle's head began to pile on additional pain, internal conflict warring with her instant need to rebuke.  “If I answer, will you shut up?”

“Perhaps after a few more questions.  So.  Is a cannibal a monster?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he is eating another human being.  That's wrong.”  Isabelle felt her logic to be strangely threadbare, softening in the blanket of silence between them, and it infuriated her.

“Okay.  So.  Are all human beings monsters?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Isabelle glared at him.  “Really?”

“Humor me.”  His eyes shone earnestly.  If he wasn't a damn werewolf, he'd be quite a good-looking man.  It irritated her further to see him sporting the looks of a friendly, affable human, when she knew the demon that lurked inside. 

“No.  Not all humans are monsters.”

“Am I a monster?”

“Obviously.”

“But I don't eat human flesh.  I eat beef.  Chicken.  Pork.  So by your definition of monster and not monster, I'm not one.”

Now her mind insisted on spinning in vertigo.  At a loss for words, Isabelle glared at him, not bothering to add anything to the statement.  She attempted to process it, before muttering a curse under her breath.  She hated his type, beyond the obvious werewolf affliction.  The kind that knew better, thought better, and looked down their noses at you as if you were stupid and naïve, some kind of fool blundering around the world.

He was a monster.

That was the basis of her whole existence right now.

“You shouldn't put everyone into one group because it suits you,” Milev said, his voice soft.  “Everyone's different.  And, for the record, I do agree with you.  A lot of werewolves are bad.  Nasty.  But some are not.  Do not mistake one for the other.”

How was she supposed to mistake them for anything else?  Werewolves were werewolves.  They didn't change their spots.

What was the point of what she did, if there were good werewolves?

Isabelle closed her eyes, the headache continuing to assault her skull.  She just wanted to shut her eyes right now.  Never mind she hadn't been bitten, she was still captured by werewolves, and stuck with one.

An annoying one.

What was even worse was that despite herself, she knew she might grow to like him, given the time and space.  That, or be driven insane by his constant banter, his mocking of her views.

Presently, she heard a scratching sound.  She opened her eyes to see that Milev had transformed into his feral form, and was using his teeth to gnaw at the chains at the edge, all without a growl or snarl in earshot.

The familiar zip of terror faded at the knowledge he couldn't reach her.  Instead, in a kind of morbid fascination, Isabelle watched the feral Milev as he chewed away.

“This is harder than it looks,” he said, voice harsh and grating.  “I've been at it for a while.  I think they're wearing thin.  Or I'm filing my teeth.”

“You can speak?”  The surprise made Isabelle forget her enmity.  She'd never seen someone in feral form have so much control over their personality.  Usually she expected growling, a little bit of gnashing, some biting.

“I still have a tongue.”  He did appear to chew on his words, with the way his jaw moved to form them.  “It's just... more of an effort.”

“I thought you didn't have any control in that form.”

Milev stopped gnawing.  “Of course we do.  We choose to turn into it.  The same way we choose to bite, and attack, and kill.  We choose to give into our anger.  Or we choose not to.”

Running through lessons in her head, along with past interactions with werewolves, Isabelle felt fairly certain that what Milev had just described was impossible.  Once a werewolf had shifted, the control on their instincts lessened to near nothing.  They became primal savages.

And then here was Milev, happily chewing away at his chains, without any apparent change in his personality.

What the actual fuck.

“I'm serious,” he said, finding clear amusement in her flabbergasted expression.  “It's all mind over matter.  So, rest assured, when I do break out of this, I'm not going to have an uncontrollable urge to consume you.”

She took a deep breath, focusing on his peculiar golden eyes, which gleamed brighter under the transformation.  “Why are you even here, anyway?  Why did they lock you up?”

“Didn't I already explain?”  He shifted back into human form. The way the snout melted back into a human nose unnerved Isabelle, but also made her oddly curious.  Didn't that hurt? 

“Uh, maybe.”  She rewound her memory, fighting past her initial derision.  “Your... alpha is away.  You were overrun by another clan?”

“Oh, good.  You were paying attention.  Maybe there's hope for you yet.”

“How long have you been down here?”

An enemy of my enemy is...  not an enemy.  For now.

Snapping at this werewolf wasn't going to get her out of the cell.  For whatever reason, he was stuck down here with her, treating her with an amused, slightly condescending air.  Maybe it was something to do with the irritating way he talked.  Maybe they'd just shut him down here so they didn't have to listen to his theatrics.

For some reason, his stupid, dumb speech about the cannibals resonated in her skull as well. 

Not all werewolves are monsters.  Yeah.  That's gonna take a while to wrap my head around.

She glowered at Milev, annoyed at herself for even considering him as an ally.  For deigning to talk to him at all.

His nose twitched.  He narrowed his eyes and glanced towards the basement entrance, up a flight of rough-hewn wooden steps.  “Here they come.  With food, maybe.”

The scraping sound of metal reverberated, followed by a click.  The door swung open, and three werewolves trumped down the stairs, their boots thundering over the boards, sparking up a mountain of dust that spiraled in the atmosphere. 

Immediately, anxiety and hatred blossomed in Isabelle, and she glanced at Milev, who raised a finger as close as he could to his lips, warning her to be silent.

“Well, well, well,” one of the werewolves said cheerfully, carrying two cereal boxes with two bottles of water tucked under his left armpit.  “We got our illegal alien and our human whore down here.  How've you two been getting on?  Bitch likes killing her wolves, man, know what I mean?”  He winked at Milev, who returned a thin smile back.

“Drop the food and head back up.”  A taller, blonde-haired and gray-eyed werewolf muttered.  The third one skulked behind with a bandage over his arm, glaring daggers with orange eyes at Isabelle.

The initial speaker tossed the cereal and bottles at each captive.  The bottle bounced away from Isabelle, and he shrugged.  “Oh well.  I'll maybe pick that up later.  Bye!”

The werewolf with the injured arm, however, went to pick the bottle up.  He placed it beside Isabelle, before viciously kicking her in the ribs.  She gasped, as he said, “You murdered my brother and my father.  If I had my way, you'd be fucking dead.  You murdered them.  Filthy little swine.”

“Just repaying the favor,” Isabelle wheezed, “after what your kind did to me and mine.”  A dark, evil smile crept over her lips, designed to infuriate him beyond reason.

The werewolf snarled, his canines lengthening. 

A drop of sweat pushed out of her hairline.  Maybe I shouldn't have done that. 

“George!  Come.  You'll have your retribution later,” one of his companions barked.

George shivered in incandescent rage, before backing off and following the other two upstairs.  The promise behind his eyes left no doubt in Isabelle's mind what he intended to do to her later.