Saber and Rusty

Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2016 Angelique Voisen

ISBN: 978-1-77339-051-2

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Karyn White

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To my readers, I hope you enjoy Rusty and Saber’s story. To Evernight, for giving this story a chance.

SABER AND RUSTY

Bad Boys Need Love Too, 1

Angelique Voisen

Copyright © 2016

Chapter One

Shoved against a corner with guns and snarling fangs, Rusty’s back hit the glass wall. He knew he reached his end game. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the odds were stacked against him. Four wore fancy suits and toted assault shotguns loaded with silver tipped bullets. Two were in wolf form, and these fellows looked ready to sink their teeth into his tender parts.

Six against one isn’t fair at all.

His mind furiously searched for a way out—aside from hurling himself out of the window of course. That was Rusty’s last course of action. Even a wereferret wouldn’t be able to heal from thirty-storey fall. All this trouble to retrieve his favorite hat, but God, it was a splendid hat.

It was more than a simple black fedora with a braided leather band and a black feather tucked to its right side. It was Rusty’s hat and used to belong to his dad. Rusty’s lucky hat.

Said fedora used to sit on his head only a couple of precious minutes ago. Now it was crowning the undeserving head of Sin City’s well-known mobster, Ward Hancock after Ward plucked it from the ground.

What was the real kicker?

Losing his hat had been entirely his fault. Rusty should have never worn the hat in the subway during peak hours. That way, the hat wouldn’t have toppled off his head and found its way to the great mob boss himself. Everyone knew Ward was eccentric, even to the point the mobster would wear someone else's damn property.

You have nowhere else to go, you dirty rat, one of the men sneered.

Never mind the guy’s stereotypical shaved head and bad taste in tattoos. This guy could do whatever he wanted, given he held the kick-ass gun. Since no names were given, Rusty silently gave him the designation Baldy.

Still, Rusty took offense at the discrimination. He sniffed and huffed, tried to look imposing as much as his skinny five-six frame allowed. In different circumstances, preferably when Rusty’s life wasn’t threatened, he’d have had a comeback ready. These surly fellows could sure some education about the noble species of ferrets.

By some miracle, Rusty’s tongue clicked and he managed words. Fine. If I come with you, what’s going to happen?

You insulted our boss in front of the city’s elite when you crashed into the party unannounced, another buffoon in a cheap suit said in a grave tone.

The city’s criminal elite, Rusty corrected.

That earned him snarls from the two werewolves, who were maybe three inches from him. Rusty pressed himself against the glass, not liking the look of those impressive saliva-coated teeth.

The suits weren’t amused by his correction. In fact, they looked a little puzzled, as if Rusty mentioned something confusing.

Okay, so what happens to innocent bystanders who accidentally insulted your boss? Rusty asked by way of conversation.

This wasn’t looking too hot. He spied the doorway beyond the lackey’s broad shoulders. Not the best way to go, though. There would be more guards waiting and the auction was only five stories below them.

Guess, said Baldy. He gave Rusty a flash of his sharp and yellow teeth.

Why did predators like doing that? Did they think that made them look cool or something? Was he supposed to look even more scared than he already was? Come on. Rusty had nearly emptied his bladder the moment he realized Operation: Retrieve the Fedora had failed.

Torture? Rusty asked brightly.

Baldy and his pals chuckled. Rusty thought if their positions were reversed, none of this would be funny.

Bingo, Baldy said, raising his gun. So what will it be, rat? We shoot holes at you and let our pals have at you. Baldy nodded to the slobbering werewolves that started sniffing at Rusty for emphasis. Baldy continued, Or you come quietly with us. Answer some questions as to why you attacked Mr. Hancock.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out how these goons would squeeze answers out of him.

I choose the third option, Rusty proclaimed.

Their millisecond of confusion was all Rusty needed to execute his dramatic exit. With a grunt, he angled his shoulder against the glass and shoved. Rusty thought he heard a crack. Shit.

Baldy started to laugh. Get him, fellows. Dead meat is better than none.

The werewolves lunged at him. Rusty gave the glass another desperate shove. A spider web crack appeared. The wolves nearly snapped his left leg off, but Rusty hurled his entire weight out the glass. Baldy started shouting, telling the men not to shoot. Rusty assumed that would alert the cops.

Rusty wished he’d stayed home instead of executing his ill-conceived plan to retrieve his lucky fedora.

Focus on the change. Calm your center.

Anyone in his situation would panic. The wind whipped at his face as he plummeted downwards. Time slowed to a crawl. He reached for his inner ferret, but the shift refused to come. Goddamn it. Rusty had suspected this would happen. He never coped well under pressure. Shifting was impossible when he was under stress or too nervous.

I want to live. Repeating the mantra several times helped.

Fur began covering his skin. Rusty began to shrink in body mass. Organs rearranged themselves. The clothes he wore fluttered away, and so did the rest of his belongings. Burner phone, stolen wallet, disposable top-up debit cards with fake names—nothing of worth.

Rusty technically didn’t exist. There was no trace of him on police files or on the web. Because of the dangers of his chosen profession, he made sure no one could identify him. That hat, though. His glorious hat couldn’t wind up on the head of a fucking mobster.

Rusty wasn’t entirely sure ferrets possessed nine lives the way cats did, but he gathered his chances of surviving a fall would be greater in animal form. Ferrets were proud and resistant creatures, right?

Oh, who was Rusty kidding?

His best friend Orange was a tabby shifter. When exploring the city in animal form—ahem, spying on hunky werewolves—Orange landed on his feet nine out of ten times. Rusty meanwhile flopped on his back like some kind of clumsy dog.

He scrambled his paws in the air, hoping that might somehow slow his fall. Yeah right. Rusty spun again, so his eyes saw the incoming