“Aw, shit,” said a man’s voice softly.
One of the men behind the flashlights knelt beside Emmitt. I recognized Blake Porter, one of the supposed cultists I’d been doing such a fabulous job of investigating. He was the quintessential pretty boy, though he didn’t look so pretty now with his blond hair plastered to his scalp and the look of raw sorrow on his beautiful face. He brushed his hand gently over Emmitt’s face.
“Keep your fucking hands off him!” one of the other two growled, the one who insisted on shining his light right in my eyes. He took a menacing step in Blake’s direction.
Blake looked up at the speaker blandly. “I was just closing his eyes.” He sat back on his heels and held his hands innocently to his sides.
My head was still spinning from a combination of concussion, shock, and blood loss, but everything around me had taken on a surreal quality that had nothing to do with my injuries. These men weren’t acting at all like first responders to an accident. There was no sense of urgency or shock. No one had spoken to me, asked if I was all right. And the man who’d ordered Blake to keep his hands to himself had sounded distinctly protective. But why would the cultists—any of the cultists—feel protective of the man who’d been trying to lure one of their members away? Did they even know who he was?
My teeth were chattering, my feet and hands almost completely numb. The wound in my side was anything but. I didn’t know how long hypothermia would take to kill me, but if I had to guess, I’d say I was halfway to the grave already.
“C-call an ambulance,” I stammered, since it obviously hadn’t occurred to these wingnuts that I was in need of medical assistance.
“Shut up, you fucking bitch!” roared Mr. Hostility, the flashlight in my eyes still keeping me from seeing his face.
“Jamaal, no!” Blake suddenly yelled, reaching out, but he was too late.
I didn’t see the kick coming until the heavy boot connected with my face, and the world went dark again.
When I came to, I wished I hadn’t. My side still screamed in pain. I was still freezing, and soaked, and light-headed. And now my jaw felt not so much broken as crushed. I tasted blood in my mouth as I forced my eyes open.
I was lying on the road, being pelted by sleet. All three of the cultists’ flashlights were on the ground. With none of the beams directly in my eyes, I could actually see what was going on around me.
The man who had kicked me—Jamaal—was being held back by a third man, who I recognized as Logan Fields, the man Maggie had run off with. It was hard to believe that Logan was physically capable of restraining Jamaal, who was even bigger and more imposing than Emmitt.
I had no idea what Jamaal had against me, but whatever it was, he was beyond livid. His face was twisted into a feral snarl, and he was struggling against Logan’s hold with every ounce of strength, his head lashing back and forth, whipping the beads at the ends of his braids across Logan’s face. Somehow, Logan held on, though his face was dotted with welts, and the uncertain footing should have seen them both sprawling on the ground.
“Take it easy, Jamaal,” Blake said. He was standing between me and the two struggling men, but he looked even less able to hold off Jamaal than Logan did. “You’re not helping Emmitt by acting like a mad dog.”
That enraged Jamaal even more. His howl sounded scarcely human, sending a superstitious shiver down my spine.
Incongruously, Logan laughed, even as he struggled to hold Jamaal back. “You sure have a way with words, bud.”
Blake looked sheepish. “Sorry.”
Again, my sluggish brain struggled to make sense of things. Why were these guys talking about Emmitt like he was a friend of theirs? He was supposed to be the enemy. At least, that’s what he’d told me. But I was beginning to wonder if anything Emmitt had told me was the truth.
“Jamaal,” Logan said sharply, trying to get the other man’s attention. “I don’t want to hurt you, man, but I’m getting pretty damn tired of playing referee.”
“Then let me go!” Jamaal snarled in reply, his eyes fixed on me with such hatred it was amazing I didn’t go up in a puff of smoke.
“Enough!” Logan said, but Jamaal continued to struggle. Logan heaved a sigh, and then … I’m not really sure what happened. Maybe it was the multiple blows to my head, or the shock, or a cold-induced hallucination, but it looked to me like Logan shoved the bigger man forward so hard that he flew all the way across the road and slammed into the trunk of a tree on the other side. And when I say flew, I don’t mean stumbled—I mean he flew through the air with the greatest of ease.
Impossible, of course. Even if the men had been more evenly matched, it wasn’t possible for one human being to throw another human being that far and with such force. Icicles rained from the branches of the tree as it shuddered with the impact. When Jamaal collapsed to the ground over the knotty roots, he didn’t get up.
Logan gave me a quick glance, his face registering mild distaste—which I much preferred to Jamaal’s rabid hostility—then turned his attention back to Blake. “Take her to the house. I’ll hang out here until Jamaal comes to. And I’ll try to talk him down a bit when he does.”
Blake looked at Jamaal’s crumpled form doubtfully. “I think she may have just killed the only person capable of talking him down.”
Logan looked grim. “Maybe. But I might have a chance if you just get her out of sight.”
Blake didn’t look convinced. “Good luck with that.”
I tried to form some kind of protest. I didn’t need to go to the house—I needed to go to the hospital. I didn’t know just how badly I was wounded, but I was sure it was pretty damn bad. Even before Jamaal kicked me in the face.
I doubt Blake would have listened to my protest, even if I’d managed to muster one. My jaw sent spears of agony through my head the moment I tried to move it, and I was now shivering so violently I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get words out anyway.
Blake squatted beside me, slipping one arm behind my shoulders and one behind my knees. Then he rose easily to his feet, making no particular effort not to jostle me. I couldn’t help crying out at the pain, but Blake ignored me.
Behind us, Jamaal let out a little groan.
“Shit,” Blake and Logan said in unison. And then Blake began jogging back toward the house, slipping and sliding like mad, and I was in too much pain to think of anything other than how much I wished I would pass out for a third time.
Blake carried me all the way around the house to a back entrance. He knocked on the door with his foot, and moments later I heard footsteps approaching. The lights went on, and the door swung open.
I was barely conscious, my clothes soaked through with melted ice and blood. I felt I’d never be warm again, sure I was going to die if I didn’t get medical attention stat. Through eyes narrowed in pain, I saw a few more cultists—including Maggie—standing in the hall with anxious looks on their faces.
“What happened?” one of them asked as Blake stepped inside.
He shook his head. “Emmitt’s dead.”
Someone gasped, and Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a cry. Even in my shocked, semi-lucid state, I was once again aware of how off everything seemed. Not only did everyone seem to know and care about Emmitt, but Blake was carrying the obviously battered body of a woman soaked in blood, and no one seemed to even consider calling an ambulance. What was wrong with these people?
My eyes finally adjusted to the brightly lit hallway, and I did a mental double take. Despite my distinct lack of success in investigating the cult, I had at least managed to identify and get photos of each member. In those photos, the only member of the cult who’d had a tattoo was Blake, who had a corny cartoon Cupid on his biceps. But as I blinked water out of my eyes, I saw that each person in the hall had a tattoo visible somewhere, mostly on their faces or necks.
The tattoos were like nothing I’d ever seen before. They looked like hieroglyphics or cuneiform or some other incomprehensible script, and thou
gh I stared, I couldn’t for the life of me come up with a word to describe their color. In fact, the colors seemed to change with every minute shift of the light.
“What should I do with this one?” Blake asked, indicating me with a curl of his lip.
His question was directed at Anderson Kane, a man my observations had led me to believe was their leader, despite his laid-back demeanor; a suspicion that was even now being confirmed.
Anderson barely spared me a glance. “We’ll deal with her later,” he said dismissively. “Put her downstairs for now.”
I voiced a protest at that, but no one listened to me. Oh, God. These guys were just going to dump me in a room somewhere and let me bleed to death!
I tried to find something I could say to persuade Blake he needed to call an ambulance, but if he heard a word I said, he made no sign of it. He carried me down a narrow flight of stairs into a huge basement, then into a drafty corridor punctuated with several doors, each of which came equipped with multiple deadbolt locks on the outside. None of those doors was locked, but the sight instantly called to mind a prison cellblock.
Blake stopped in front of the first door, pushing it open with his foot to reveal a small, barren room with a stone floor and a single thin cot in one corner. There was a sink and a toilet in another corner, but other than that, the room was empty.
Blake dropped me unceremoniously onto the cot, and I couldn’t stifle a cry of pain as my side and my head both screamed in agony. Without another word, he turned his back on me and left the room, closing the door behind him.
With a moan of utter despair, I heard the dead bolts being thrown and realized that even if my wounds didn’t kill me, I was still in big, big trouble.
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 loo
ked 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.