Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [673]
They had to carry Quinn, and they weren’t gentle about it. He got banged around against the stairs, and once they dropped him. He was a big guy. Now he was a bleeding big guy, since one of the blows had cut the skin above his left eye. He’d had the duct tape treatment, too, and I wondered how the fur would react to the tape.
We were being held side by side in the courtyard, briefly, and Quinn looked over at me as if he desperately wanted to speak to me. The blood was running down his cheek from the wound over his eyes, and he looked groggy from the stun gun. His hands were changing back to regular hands. I lunged toward him, but the Weres kept us apart.
Two vans drove into the circular drive, two vans that said BIG EASY ELECTRIC on the side. They were white and long and windowless in the back, and the logo on the side had been covered up with mud, which looked highly suspicious. A driver jumped out of the cab of each van, and the first driver threw open the doors to the rear of the first vehicle.
While our captors were hustling Quinn and me over to that van, the rest of the raiding party was being brought down the stairs. The men Quinn had managed to hurt were damaged far worse than Quinn, I’m glad to say. Claws can do an amazing amount of damage, especially wielded with the force a tiger can exert. The guy I’d hit with the lamp was unconscious, and the one who’d reached Quinn first was possibly dead. He was certainly covered with blood and there were things exposed to the light that should have been neatly packed in his belly.
I was smiling with satisfaction when the men holding me shoved me into the back of the van, which I discovered was awash with trash and absolutely filthy. This was a high-class operation. There was a wide-mesh screen between the two front seats and the open rear, and the shelves in the rear had been emptied, I supposed for our occupancy.
I was crammed into the narrow aisle between the shelves, and Quinn was jammed in after me. They had to work hard because he was still so stunned. My two escorts were slamming the rear van doors on the two of us as the hors de combat Weres were loaded into the other van. I was guessing the vans had been parked out on the street briefly so we wouldn’t hear the vehicles pulling into the driveway. When they were ready to load us up, our captors had pulled into the courtyard. Even the people of a brawling city like New Orleans would notice some battered bodies being loaded into vans . . . in the pouring rain.
I hoped the Weres wouldn’t think of grabbing Amelia and Bob, and I prayed that Amelia would think cleverly and hide herself, rather than do some impulsive and brave witch thing. I know it’s a contradiction, right? Praying for one thing (asking God a favor) while at the same time hoping your enemies would be killed. All I can say is, I have a feeling Christians have been doing that from the get-go—at least bad ones, like me.
“Go, go, go,” bellowed the shorter man, who’d hopped into the front seat. The driver obliged with a completely unnecessary squealing of tires, and we lurched out of the courtyard as if the president had just been shot and we had to get him to Walter Reed.
Quinn came to completely as we turned off Chloe Street to head for our final destination, wherever it might be. His hands were bound behind him, which is painful, and he hadn’t quit bleeding from the head. I’d expected him to remain groggy and shocked. But when his eyes focused on my face, he said, “Babe, they beat you bad.” I must not look too good.
“Yeah, well, you seem to be in the same boat,” I said. I knew the driver and his companion could hear us, and I didn’t give a damn.
With a grim attempt at a smile, he said, “Some defender I turned out to be.”
In the Weres’ estimation, I wasn’t very dangerous, so my hands had been bound in front. I squirmed until I was able to put pressure on the cut on Quinn’s forehead.