Two
EARLIER THAT DAY TIME: CLASSIFIED
AFTER AN HOURLONG MEETING with Michael, Solo, and John, Blue received a new assignment: Operation Dumpster Dive. A new target: Gregory Star. And a new female to seduce for information: Tiffany Star.
Blue's fiancee, Pagan Cary, had no idea he lived a double life, but she would find out what went down with Tiffany. The entire world would find out. Blue no longer tried to hide his "affairs."
Did you seriously just put that word in mental air quotes? You do actually have affairs.
Yeah, but the one-night stands still aren't for my pleasure. They're for my job. Therefore, they don't count.
Tell that to the Black Plague. His nickname for Evie. Actually, he had a lot of nicknames for Miss Evie. "Honey Badger" was his second favorite.
Don't think about her or your anger will cause a power surge.
At the very beginning of his relationship with Pagan, he'd told her there would always be other women. She hadn't cared then and she wouldn't care now. She stayed with him for his body, his money, and his fame, and not necessarily in that order.
He was fine with that, because he stayed with her for the convenience. A wife would stop targets and assets from planning a future with him.
Hard-core? Maybe. But, in the end, far more merciful.
"I have a bad feeling about this mission," Solo muttered.
"That's because it's going to suck," John replied, just as quietly.
"What are you guys complaining about? I'm the one who has to do the actual sucking," Blue said as he led the pair to the front door of Michael's office. He twisted the knob, prepared to exit.
Boom!
A violent blast of wind lifted him off his feet and threw him backward. He wrecked through a wall. A terrible high-pitched ring vibrated in his ears, his world shrank to only a tiny bubble, and everything hazed with black and white. He managed to draw a breath into his partially deflated lungs, and instantly regretted it. The air burned and blistered, igniting a bonfire.
Lava flowed over him . . . pressure squeezed at his limbs, his chest . . . something hard fell on his arm and leg, snapping the bones, and everything proved to be too much, pain rolling over him, consuming him, melting him, then pulling him apart piece by piece.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, his muscles too heavy and knotted to even twitch. The ringing in his ears eventually faded, allowing him to hear the crackle of flames mixed with little bits of conversation.
"--with this one?"
"--fetch a decent price."
"--this one?"
"--ashing him."
"--last one?"
"--keeping him."
Blue blinked open his eyes, a nearly impossible feat. His lids were like two pieces of sandpaper that had been glued together. A human male loomed over him, one he'd never before met.
Medical personnel?
A thick cloud of smoke surrounded the man, shielding his features.
What the hell had happened?
Blue opened his mouth to ask, but rather than words, something warm and wet gurgled out and trickled down his cheek.
"Stupid alien," the man muttered, splashing cold water over Blue's body. No, not water. The pungent aroma of accelerant stung his nostrils. "I have double or nothing riding on your next season. Without you, the Invaders are going to blow it, and I'm gonna lose a fortune."
A match was lit, the flames immediately capturing his attention. Yellow-gold, flickering, growing taller and taller . . . quite lovely . . . falling . . . landing . . . on Blue.
What was left of his shirt acted as kindling, feeding the flames a delectable treat, and Blue's already decimated skin bubbled up and liquefied, drip-dripping . . . over his sides, leaving only muscles . . . but even those began to fry.
An agonized roar burst from his throat as he forced his petrified, aching limbs into action, and sat up. A chunk of plaster skidded away from him--had it pinned him? Whatever. He batted at the flames until they died, only to stop and gaze with horror at the condition of his body. His left arm ended in a stump, his hand missing. The rest of him was a mass of blood and meat. He could see several bones peeking past charred muscle.
The man stumbled backward, gasping, "You're alive."
A surge of fury activated Blue's Arcadian power, and he was able to lumber to his feet. Dizzy . . . swaying . . . so much pain . . . And yet, fueled by ragged animal instincts he usually kept on a tight leash, he managed to stomp forward and grab the man by the neck, using his remaining hand, squeezing and lifting.
"Who. You?" Blue's thoughts were coming swiftly, too swiftly, then breaking apart before he could sort through them and speak coherently. "Why. Kill. Me?"
Choking sounds. No words.
His fury magnified, and Blue squeezed harder.
Skin shaded to the color of sapphires . . . violets . . . eyes bugging out . . . lips opening and closing . . . then the man's spine snapped, and his head lolled to the side.
Silence.
Mistake.
Irritated, Blue tossed the limp body to the ground.
He scanned his surroundings, surprised by what he found. Fires here and there, walls toppled and torched, furniture in shambles, debris everywhere, but no sign of John. No sign of Solo. Please. No sign of Michael, either.
Taken away? They wouldn't have willingly left without him.
Can't stay.
Had to heal. Find them. But where could he go?
If one of Michael's houses was destroyed, it was safe to assume all the others were compromised. For the moment, Blue had to operate as if the person responsible knew the names and occupations of the three agents he'd just tried to kill, because only someone who had been welcomed into Michael's house could have gotten a bomb inside.
Blue had to avoid his own homes, then. Maybe even Pagan's.
Pagan. Was she a target, too?
He'd have to track her down and find out.
He climbed out from the rubble and smoke. Ignoring the agony of his body, he entered the daylight. Sirens blared in the distance, blending with the panicked murmurs of onlookers. The two houses next door had suffered extensive damage.
A frightened scream erupted behind him.
Blue spun, the action nearly knocking him off his feet. His dazed stare landed on a human female. He recognized her. She lived across the street from Michael. Was forty-eight years old. Had two children. Always hosted a holiday party at Thanksgiving.
The information hit him like bullets, one fact after the other. All useless.
She clutched her stomach, gasping, "Monster."
Monster? Him? Probably.
Can't stay, he reminded himself.
Authorities would arrive any minute and try to question him. They would demand to know who he was, why he was here, what he'd been doing, and in this compromised state he might admit to something he shouldn't.
Blue tripped forward, heading down the street, staying as close to the shadows as possible. Anyone who spotted him gasped with horror and jumped out of the way. No one asked if he needed help. Good. He didn't.
Tucking his ruined arm against his chest, he kicked into super-speed, running as fast as his broken body would allow. It was difficult to do, every step jostling him, agonizing him, but he'd trained for every eventuality over the years, even something like this. No one would be able to get a lock on him.
He passed a busy shopping center--but not before he caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the store windows. His hair was gone. Even his eyebrows were gone, and one of his eyes drooped onto his cheek. He had a patch of flesh on his left side, but that was it. Everything else was raw and red.
Hideous.
Whatever. He'd had worse injuries. He would heal. Would even grow a new hand.
There was Pagan's house. A three-story restored brownstone he'd bought for her. How much longer could he stay on his feet? What little strength he possessed waned with . . . every . . . second. . . .
*
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The laughter woke him.
Blue jolted upright, hissing as a stark, burning anguish claimed him. A black crust had formed over his exposed muscles, cracking with his movement. Each of his bones felt brittle, ready to shatter at any moment.
He looked around, taking stock. Dark red walls, a black sink and toilet. He'd made it inside Pagan's home, he realized, but he must have passed out in the guest bathroom, thinking to clean up before confronting her. How much time had passed?
"In three months, I'm going to be Mrs. Corbin Blue," Pagan crowed. "Can you believe it?"
"He's so beautiful. All that silky white hair . . . those lavender eyes . . . and oh, those lips! So lush and red. I'd say they were better suited for a woman, but they look too good on him."
Her sister's voice.
"I know," Pagan said with a giggle. "He's absolutely perfect."
"But aren't you worried about his . . ." the sister continued somberly.
"His what?" Pagan prompted.
"Well, his infidelities."
His fiancee scoffed, and his admiration for her tripled. "He and I have an open relationship. He tells me when he's going to be with someone else, and I extend him the same courtesy."
"What! You've been with other men?" the sister gasped out.
"He thinks so, yes."
"But you actually haven't?" the girl insisted.
"No."
"But . . . why would you want him to think so? Isn't he jealous?"
"First, men want what other men want. Second, no, he isn't."
Was that bitterness in her tone?
"But what if he falls in love with one of his affairs?" the sister asked.
"Blue? Fall in love?" Pagan snorted. "No matter how much he smiles and teases, that man is emotionally shut off. But, okay, let's say he does the impossible and falls in love. So what? I'll be his wife and the mother of his children. He'll never leave me."
A crack in the door allowed him to peer into the living room where the girls sat, sipping wine. Pagan wore a skintight dress that stopped just below the line of her panties. If she was even wearing panties. Most nights she wasn't. Her voluminous breasts practically spilled from her halter top, just the way she knew he liked. Her skin was a perfect golden brown, bronzed by a reverent sun. Sexy. A chic crop of platinum hair framed a face most men would only ever see in their wet dreams.
She wasn't under attack, as he'd feared. He should leave. If he revealed himself, she wouldn't recognize him. Who would? He might be able to convince her of his identity, but she would insist on taking him to the hospital. He couldn't risk it.
Right now, the person responsible for his condition might assume he was dead. It would be better for Blue--and Pagan--if that person continued to assume so.
Should have thought this through first.
Now, at least, he knew Pagan hadn't been targeted.
Where could he go?
Who could he trust?
Who had tried to kill him? And why?
And where were his friends? Had they survived?
They must have. He wouldn't believe anything else.
Darkness . . . weaving through his vision . . .
He had to get somewhere, and fast, before he once again lost consciousness. There was a good chance he wouldn't be waking up anytime soon.
No one playing for the Invaders knew of his other job. Only Michael, John, and Solo did--no, that wasn't true. Evie knew.
Would she help?
Would he harm her when she irritated him? Because she would definitely irritate him. If he lost control of his abilities . . .
No other choice.
Blue labored to his feet, moaning as the agony became too much.
He heard a startled gasp. "Who's in there?" Pagan called, sounding worried.
Without a word, he climbed through the window into the daylight.
Three
EVIE STOMPED INTO HER bedroom and threw her purse in the general direction of her closet. Key to the basement, that's what she needed. But where had she put the bloody thing?
"Light on," she said, the darkness instantly chased away by the overhead lamp. She--
Screamed, and reached for the blade she always tucked inside her pocket.
A hideous creature sprawled on her lovely king-size bed. Whatever it was, it was male, and big. Really big, both wide and long, its feet hanging past the edge of the mattress. Its skin was red and black--no . . . that wasn't skin. That was blood and charred flesh. Its body was sliced to ribbons, and it was missing a hand. Several bones stuck out in the wrong places.
The scent of smoke wafted through the air, stinging her nostrils.
"Evie," the creature said on a moan. "Blue."
Shock slammed through her. He spoke with Blue's voice, and even mentioned his name. And . . . and . . . he was peering at her with Blue's eyes. That gorgeous lavender, usually framed by long black lashes that made him look as though he always wore eyeliner.
"Blue?" she gasped out. No way. Just no way.
"Didn't know . . . where else . . . to go."
Hesitant, she approached the side of the bed. He watched her every movement, reminding her of a predator getting ready to attack. What would he do when she was within reach? Because it was him, she decided. Same height, same body mass. Same crackle of power so unique to the football playboy. A crackle that had rendered her blind to anything but lust for a few seconds of their first meeting.
"I must say, Mr. Blue, you've looked better."
He might have snorted. Hard to tell while he was gurgling blood.
"How did you get in here?" An alarm should be screeching right now.
"Window. Disabled . . . security. Inside and out. Sorry."
She craned her neck, zeroing in on the interior ID box. Sure enough, the lid had been pulled from the wall and the wires exposed, obviously cut and realigned. "That's going to cost a fortune to fix." But only because she would be doing the labor, and her time was mega money, and oh, wow, she really needed a moment to process what was going on.
"Bill . . . me," he gritted. "First . . . help me."
"Sure, sure," she said. "I'll ring the Arcadian chief of medicine at St. Anthony. Nice guy. Usually a three-month waiting time to see him, but for me he'll make a house call. You will, of course, be responsible for your bill, as well as owe me a huge favor." Stop babbling.
"No. You."
She got what he was trying to tell her, but wished she hadn't. For a year straight, this man had screwed with her anytime they were forced to work together. Nothing overt, and nothing that would compromise the end result of the work--his work, that is. He'd left her behind. Told her wrong places to meet, stuck her with all kinds of paperwork. Worst of all, he'd always written a review of her performance.
The gist of every review? Miss Black stinks like arse.
She'd seen him a few times since Claire was killed, when she'd acted as an asset. He'd always ignored her, as if she were unworthy of his attention, and made a big deal of making out with his date. Whoever that happened to be.
The suckwad treatment cut to the quick, even though she hated the guy. Like she really needed another male to drive home the point that she wasn't good enough--for anything! And for a conceited man-whore to do it? A male willing to hump anything that moved? Bloody humiliating.
"Ignoring?" he said now. "Typical."
I should make him beg. "Fine," she huffed. "I'll help you." For Michael. And information. "Just be warned. Arcadians are not one of my thousands of specialties, and I will be keeping track of your behavior. Expect me to write a report." Babbling again.
She dragged her gaze over him, medical eye assessing the massive amount of damage, her mind at last computing just how weak he must be. His nostrils were black. He could have inhaled a lethal amount of smoke. She might have to place a tube in his trachea. It would deliver a higher concentration of oxygen to his lungs. Also, resuscitating fluid would definitely have to be dispensed. He might even need a transfusion. Clearl
y more than ten percent of his cells had suffered hemolysis, and that could lead to kidney malfunction.
If he were human. But he wasn't. Blimey. She truly had no experience with his race.
"I'm assuming you weren't playing Throw Another Arcadian on the Barbie but were in the explosion that decimated Michael's house," she said, walking to her dresser and withdrawing her box of "home brew," as she called it. Drugs she'd . . . tampered with.
"Yes. Woke up. Michael . . . gone. Everyone gone."
Great. He knew as much as she did. So much for trading her services for info. "You'd fare better in a hospital, you know." Once more at his side, she stuck him in the arm. "That should take the edge off your pain."
"No hospital. Please . . . no. Too . . . dangerous. Star . . . bomb . . . could still . . ." He went quiet, his head lolling to the side.
Unconscious? Or dead?
Had the anesthetic harmed him?
She felt for a pulse, frowned. He had no-- There! It was too slow, too light, but there. Relief flooded her.
Evie rushed into the bathroom and drew a bath. She gathered everything she would need--or, rather, everything she had that would work. Scissors, IV tubes, and fluid bags she'd once used to practice, as well as a medicinal liquid soap usually only loaded into an enzyme shower, and a bottle of antibiotics she kept on hand. She would treat Blue as she would treat a human, and hope it worked.
She stuffed one of the pills under his tongue, praying it would dissolve and help prevent sepsis. Then she cut away what remained of his clothing, and removed his shoes.
When he was stripped to--well, can't say the skin--raw meat, she loudly stated, "Blue, I need you to wake up now."
His eyelids blinked open, and he moaned.
"Don't be a crybaby," she said, being merciless to be kind . . . maybe. "I have to get you into the tub, and while I may be strong, I'm not a crane and can't carry you." She slid her arm underneath his shoulders, intending to help him rise, but he flinched away from the agony of the contact.
"Don't touch!" he roared.
Don't shout! Despite her calm appearance, she was kind of a mess inside and he was only making it worse. "Be a dear and stand up on your own. I need you to walk into the bathroom."
Blue lumbered to his feet and stumbled toward the tub. She couldn't fathom the enormous amount of strength required for him to remain in an upright position while his leg was broken, and tried not to be impressed.
"Good boy. Now climb in the tub," she said.