Dark Descendant

THREE

I don’t know how long I lay on that cot, shivering, bleeding, sure I was going to die. As far as I could tell, I didn’t lose consciousness again, but my mind wasn’t exactly all there. I suspected more time was passing than I could account for.

Feeling returned to my hands and feet, which was a relief. I’d been halfway convinced that even if I survived, I’d lose a few fingers and toes to frostbite. The pain in my side and my head faded to manageable levels, as long as I held absolutely still. The shivering didn’t stop, but since my clothes were soaked through, that wasn’t a surprise.

What the hell had happened out there?

I remembered my headlights illuminating Emmitt’s face as he stood in the path of my car, remembered the little smile on his lips, and how he hadn’t made the slightest attempt to get out of the way. The evidence suggested he had wanted me to hit him. But hell, if he was bent on committing suicide, surely he could have found an easier way!

After lying on that cot for who knows how long, I finally decided I couldn’t stand the feel of wet fabric against my skin for another moment. Bracing myself for the pain, I made a tentative effort to push myself into a sitting position.

It was easier than I’d expected. Yeah, it hurt. My side screamed, and my head throbbed, and the whole room spun for a moment, but it was bearable. I glanced down at my sopping, bloodstained sweater and swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. Maybe moving around wasn’t such a great idea after all. The blended scents of wet wool and coppery blood gave my stomach added incentive to rebel. I closed my eyes and breathed through my mouth until the nausea receded.

Wincing in anticipation, I grabbed the hem of the sweater and started slowly, carefully peeling it away from my skin. It stuck to my wound, but it was wet enough to come loose with little effort. I stifled a whimper, my stomach rolling again. I’ve never been that crazy about the sight of blood, especially my own.

Getting the sweater off over my head was pure torture; every movement of my left arm pulled on the muscles around the wound. Even so, I was determined to get the wet wool away from my skin.

Finally, I managed to drag the sweater off, dropping it to the floor with a plop. I sat still, breathing hard from the exertion. Each breath made my side hurt. I forced myself to open my eyes and examine the wound to see how bad it was and whether I’d started it bleeding again.

I expected to see a jagged, deep gash, based both on how much it hurt and how much I’d bled. The wound that met my eyes stretched from the bottom of my rib cage all the way down to my hip. Blood smeared my skin all the way around it, but the wound itself …

I blinked in confusion. The wound was an angry red seam, but the edges were kind of puckered together, as if there were a whole lot of invisible stitches holding it closed.

What the hell?

Gently, I touched the edge of the wound with one trembling finger, sure I must have passed out after all and been stitched up while I was unconscious. But I neither saw nor felt any stitches. Besides, if someone had stitched me up, they wouldn’t have put the sodden sweater back on me.

I shuddered and decided to think about it later. I still had more wet clothing to get out of.

The pants came off more easily than the sweater. It was a relief to be out of the wet clothes, but I was still shivering in a residual chill, and there was nothing to wrap up in. The thin sheets of the cot were soaked and bloodstained and of no use. I wanted to take off the wet bra and panties, too, but there was no way I was sitting around this room naked. Bad enough that I was down to my underwear. At least I’d chosen a black satin matching set on the off chance Steph had set me up with a man I would hit it off with. Wishful thinking at its finest.

The date with Jim seemed so long ago, it had taken on an almost dreamlike quality. I checked my watch to get some feel for how long I’d been here, but the crystal was completely shattered, the hands bent so badly they couldn’t move.

I looked across the room at the sink, thinking about running some hot water over my hands to warm up a little. Assuming there was any hot water in this dungeon.

I was trying to decide if it was worth the effort to drag myself to my feet to find out, when I heard footsteps approaching from down the hall. I quickly glanced around me, but no suitable cover-up had magically appeared. I settled for grabbing the soggy pillow, turning it so the dry side was against my skin and clasping it against my chest and belly. It wasn’t much of a shield, but it was all I had.

My heart was in my throat as I heard the locks on my door clicking open. I sat up as straight as I could manage and raised my chin, hoping I looked braver than I felt.

The door swung open, and Anderson Kane stepped into the room, followed closely by Blake, who had changed into clean, dry clothes. The light revealed an iridescent tattoo beside Blake’s left eye. The shape was vaguely phallic, and like the tattoos I’d seen on the other cultists, it hadn’t been there when I’d taken the surveillance photos. Blake was carrying a chair, which he set on the floor before moving to stand in front of the door as if to block my escape.

Making a dash for it might have been tempting if I’d thought I had the least chance in hell of getting to safety. But even if I could miraculously get by both Blake and Anderson, it was unlikely that I’d get past the other cultists and out of the house. And even if I did, running out into the sleet on foot wearing nothing but a bra and panties was somewhere between insane and outright suicidal.

Anderson adjusted the angle of the chair until it was squarely facing me, then sat down. He didn’t speak, instead giving me a slow and thorough onceover. Not knowing what to say—I wasn’t going to repeat the “call an ambulance” line yet again only to have it ignored—I followed suit.

At first glance, Anderson was unprepossessing. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair. Not bad looking, in a bland vanilla sort of way. He wore a pair of tan cords with a slightly wrinkled blue Oxford shirt, and his hair was shaggy and past due for a cut. His five o’clock shadow looked scruffy, rather than sexy. He was the kind of guy you’d pass in the street without giving a second glance.

Except for the weird tattoo, that is.

It was on his neck, just above the collar of his shirt, and I still couldn’t tell what color it was. Part of it looked kind of silver, another part flashed red, but then he tilted his head to the side and the silver turned green and the red turned gold. I blinked a couple of times, trying to clear my vision. The tattoo looked more like a hologram than ink, but I’d never heard of a wearable hologram.

“You’re staring,” Anderson said, his voice startling me so much I jumped and almost dropped the pillow.

I jerked my eyes away from the tattoo, which I had, indeed, been staring at. I swallowed and clutched the pillow a little more tightly against me.

I didn’t know how to respond to his statement, so I didn’t. “Is there some reason you’re so dead set against calling me an ambulance?” I asked instead.

He raised his eyebrows. “I would think that’s obvious.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. His reasoning was far from obvious, but nothing I came up with on my own—like he was going to kill me anyway—was in the least bit comforting.

“I was in a car accident and then kicked in the head,” I said. “Even if it’s obvious, I’m not getting it. Please humor me and explain.”

He sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful.

Blake snorted, drawing my attention. He was leaning against the closed door, arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes pierced me, his anger as cold as Jamaal’s had been hot.

“Playing dumb isn’t going to win you any brownie points,” he said with a sneer. I’d never known a pretty boy could look that menacing. The sneer changed to a leer that was just as unpleasant. “Dropping the pillow might, though.”

Blood heated my cheeks. It pissed me off that I was letting him get to me that easily, but I couldn’t seem to help it. I dropped my gaze and held the pillow even more tightly.

Anderson sighed. “Please forgive Blake’s bedside manner. Sometimes he just can’t help himself when a pretty woman’s around.”

Anderson had his back to Blake and therefore couldn’t see the look on the other man’s face, but I didn’t for a moment believe he hadn’t heard the malice in Blake’s tone of voice. Flirtation had been the furthest thing from Blake’s mind, and Anderson knew that. Besides, I wasn’t exactly a ravishing beauty, even when I wasn’t wet, dirty, bruised, and bedraggled. I was kind of like Anderson, come to think of it—not bad to look at, but completely unremarkable.

“So you have no idea why we didn’t call an ambulance?” Anderson asked, bringing us back on topic.

I shook my head. “It’s generally what people do when there’s been a car accident and someone’s hurt.”

“Oh, please!” Blake said. “Cut the bullshit.”

“Ease down, Blake,” Anderson said in a low, calming voice. “It’s always possible she’s telling the truth.”

“Oh yeah, like this is all some big fucking coincidence.”

“Blake!” Anderson said with a little more heat, and Blake shut up. Anderson smiled at me, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you still think you need an ambulance?”

The question stopped me cold. My sense of time was completely out of whack, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour or so ago that I’d stumbled out onto the road, bleeding so badly I left a trail across the ice. Now I was still in pain and feeling badly beat up, but the wound seemed to have almost closed itself, and I seemed to be suffering no aftereffects from having lost so much blood. All of which was, of course, impossible.

Anderson didn’t wait for me to answer. “What were you doing on our property?”

There was no heat or anger in his voice, and yet there was a studied intensity to his question. He looked at me like a lawyer might look at a witness he was sure was about to lie.

I wasn’t sure what to say. The reason I was here was a long story, and one Anderson wasn’t going to like. Plus, the more I thought about it, the more full of holes it sounded, especially if I accepted that Emmitt must have been lying to me about at least some of the stuff he’d told me.

“I was here to meet Emmitt,” I finally said, deciding to keep my answer simple but true.

“Like hell you were!” Blake snapped. “Hey Anderson, maybe you should get her a towel or something to wrap up in. I’ll stay here and keep watch.” He gave me another creepy leer. His pants were so tight I couldn’t help seeing the evidence of why he was really suggesting Anderson leave the room.

Anderson apparently didn’t need to see Blake to know what he was thinking. He smiled that mild smile of his. “I’m sure the pillow will suffice.” His eyes met mine, and there was no missing the threat in his next softly spoken words. “For now.”

My gut cramped with fear as I recognized the good cop/bad cop tactics. If you’d told me before tonight that Blake Porter would make an effective bad cop, I’d probably have laughed at you. He was just too goddamn pretty to be scary, with his smooth, flawless skin that probably never grew more than peach fuzz, and his Cupid’s bow mouth. But right now, the absolute last thing I wanted was to be left alone with him. Unfortunately, my story sounded unbelievable even to my own ears, so why should these guys believe it?

“Why were you here to meet Emmitt?” Anderson prompted.

I decided that no matter how weird my story was going to sound under the circumstances, I had no alternative but to start talking and hope for the best.

Slowly, trying not to stammer, I told them a carefully edited version of how and why Emmitt had hired me, leaving out any mention of crazy cultists. Anderson’s face gave away nothing, but Blake made repeated little snorts of disbelief and rolled his eyes a couple of times.

When I explained that Emmitt had asked me to meet him in front of the gates, and that I’d found the gates open and driven through, both men fell silent, the silence an oppressive weight that made me want to sink under the bed and disappear. I forced myself to keep talking, though I didn’t want to relive the nightmare of seeing Emmitt standing there in the road with that little smile.

“So what you’re saying is that it was an accident?” Anderson asked when I finished talking.

I blinked at him. “Of course it was an accident! At least on my part. Did you think I ran him down on purpose?”

“What do you mean, at least on your part?”

I was momentarily taken aback by the question. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear when I’d explained. But despite everything Emmitt had told me, I was now convinced these people were actually friends of his, and it must have been shocking for them to hear that he’d basically killed himself. Maybe they didn’t want to hear it and had subconsciously filtered that part out.

“I mean he just stood there in the middle of the road, looking at me and smiling, waiting for me to hit him. I don’t know if he could have gotten out of the way if he’d tried, but he didn’t even try.”

There was a howl of rage from just outside the room. The door slammed open with such force that Blake, who was standing in front of it, went flying. He hit the floor hard and came up cursing.

Jamaal stormed into the cell in the same towering rage I’d seen by the side of the road. If he was suffering any ill effects from his tussle with Logan, I saw no sign of them.

His eyes locked on me, and he came at me like a guided missile. Leader or not, Anderson scrambled out from between us, leaving me to fend for myself.

If Anderson was the good cop, and Blake was the bad cop, Jamaal was the complete psycho cop. I’m physically fit and fairly athletic. I also know enough basic self-defense not to be completely useless in a fight. But I would have been no match for Jamaal even without my injuries. I couldn’t even manage to get to my feet before he was on me, grabbing me by the throat.

I dropped the pillow and tried to loosen Jamaal’s grip, digging my fingernails into his hand as hard as I could. I’d have gone for his face, only his arms were longer than mine and I couldn’t reach. When clawing at him didn’t work, I tried to separate one of his fingers from the herd and throw all my strength into peeling it away, willing to break it if necessary. My efforts didn’t bother him in the least, and he hauled me off of the cot until my feet dangled.

I stopped trying to loosen his fingers and merely held on to his arm, trying to pull myself up a bit so I didn’t strangle. It was a useless effort, and his hand squeezed hard enough to cut off my air completely.

Still easily holding me off the floor, he stepped around the cot so he could slam me against the wall so hard I saw stars. Or maybe the stars were just because I couldn’t breathe. My struggles weakened as my brain starved for oxygen.

Anderson came to stand beside Jamaal, his expression one of gentle concern. Concern for Jamaal, that is, not for me.

“She can’t talk while you’re choking her.”

Jamaal bared his teeth in a feral smile. “That’s a shame.” He pulled me forward then slammed me into the wall again to show how heartbroken he was. I could hardly believe I hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen yet.

“We need to get answers out of her,” Anderson said, still in that mild voice.

“You can get answers out of her when I’m finished!” Jamaal snarled, and the look on Anderson’s face hardened.

“I’m giving you an order, Jamaal. Let go. Now!”

“Fuck you!”

Across the room, Blake cursed again. The whole mild-mannered leader act Anderson had been putting on suddenly dissolved. His back straightened, his eyes flashed with anger, and his face took on an expression that said someone was about to die—or wish for death.

“Wrong answer,” Anderson said, his voice dropping about an octave and filled with a power that made my teeth ache.

My vision was beginning to fade around the edges, but I saw Anderson reach out and clap his hand on Jamaal’s shoulder, right at the base of his neck. The hatred faded from Jamaal’s face as his eyes widened in what looked like alarm, though I couldn’t see why. Then suddenly, he let go of me and screamed.

My feet hit the floor. I crumpled to my knees, gagging and coughing as I tried to draw air into my lungs.

Jamaal collapsed, too, trying to pull away from Anderson’s grip as he did. Anderson must have been stronger than he looked, maintaining his grip as he lowered himself into a crouch so he could keep his hand on Jamaal’s shoulder. Anderson’s face had turned to stone, all expression bleeding away as Jamaal continued to scream in obvious pain. In that moment, Anderson looked almost inhuman, an ice-cold predator who could kill without hesitation or remorse.

Blake appeared in the periphery of my vision. He moved with caution, but he didn’t look scared or surprised by whatever Anderson was doing. “Go easy on him, boss,” he said with a wince of sympathy. “He just lost his best friend.”

The expression on Anderson’s face thawed, a hint of humanity returning to his eyes, but he didn’t let go. Jamaal’s screams were weakening. What the hell was Anderson doing that caused such intense pain? His grip didn’t even look all that tight.

“He’ll pass out soon enough,” Anderson said, and moments later Jamaal’s whole body went limp. Anderson let go of his shoulder, and even on Jamaal’s coffee-colored skin, I could see the bright red hand mark where Anderson had been touching him.

“Sorry, my friend,” Anderson said so softly I barely heard him. The stone-cold killer was gone, and the mild-mannered human being was back. He stood up and looked at Blake. “Put him next door,” he said. “Then gather the troops in my study.”

Blake didn’t look happy with the order, but he complied, gently picking up Jamaal’s limp body and carrying him out of the room. Anderson looked down his nose at me. I was still coughing, but the gagging seemed to have stopped, and my vision had cleared.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he told me. “Think carefully about your story and whether you’d like to amend it. Unless you’re a very skilled actress, I’m pretty sure you were not familiar with the power I just used against Jamaal. If I come back later and don’t like your answers, I’ll let you experience it firsthand.”

I swallowed hard. So much for the “good cop” act.

Without a backward glance, he marched out the door, slamming it behind him. Once again, the locks clicked shut.

No doubt about it. I was in deep shit.