The whispers become murmurs as my crew speculate about Beth’s gift. When I lift a finger, the muted conversations stutter into silence.
“But—” Matt begins before remembering to raise his hand again.
I’m done with them. My voice lashes the air between us. “Forget about the hand raising and speak. I don’t have all day to deal with you and your issues.”
Matt recoils and bumps into Grace, who takes a step back. I would laugh at them, only this isn’t funny. Licking his lips, Matt opens and closes his mouth a few times before the words tumble out. “But it’s our hands. We need them for work.”
I lift my chin at Trent. “Show me his hands.”
Trent marches over, grabs Matt by his collar, and drags the struggling, sputtering man toward me. Grip unbreakable, Trent forces Matt to lift his hands for inspection.
Fingering my glaive, I turn my gray eyes on Grace, who’s taking a step back, her legs so shaky they can barely keep her upright. “Boo!”
She jumps, and my crew laugh. I have to say, I am enjoying this charade. Turning back to Matt, I run my eyes over his hands. “Fleshy as a fat baby. And I’m guessing as soft, right?”
Trent runs a thumb over the man’s palm and nods. “Right you are, Cap.”
Gripping my glaive more securely, I rock off the wall back onto my feet, satisfied when Matt cringes and Grace drops to her knees, her legs unable to sustain her. “I doubt either of you have ever worked a day in your life. You won’t miss those hands. I think one from each of you will bring in almost enough to pay that triple fee you mentioned. I’ll take the rest in the jewelry you’re wearing.”
Gasping, Grace hangs onto an especially shiny bauble decorating one finger. “You can’t. This is my engagement ring.”
“I can and I will if you want Beth back.”
Although their distress is only a small measure of what Beth must’ve had to endure her entire life, it doesn’t comfort me. No, that will come when the job’s finished, and I don’t give Beth back to them. When I leave each of them without a hand.
I glance at Trent. “See that it’s done if they want their girl.” Trent nods, and I stalk out of the guest room. I don’t care to hear them squealing when they lose their hands. Not that I need to. Trent will escort them to the flesh merchant.
While this option will give the price the crew expects, it’s too merciful. Losing a hand apiece while drugged up so they feel no pain doesn’t seem fair after the mental, emotional, and physical anguish they inflicted on their daughter. I have half a mind to let the more bloodthirsty members of my crew exact payment. They would relish hacking the hands off, and Trent wouldn’t have to sully his soul.
Does the decision sully mine? Will I regret this choice down the line?
I doubt it. Besides, Beth’s parents have the option to not give up their hands. However, deep down, I know their greed will decide for them. But that’s their guilt, not mine.
With a mix of trepidation and excitement, I traverse the maze of corridors to my private chamber. I need rest before we come up with a plan to get Beth back. Because this will be the greatest challenge I’ve faced since that awful day.
Chapter Four
Trent surges toward me, right fist aimed at my jaw. I throw my left arm up—a glancing blow to deflect his wrist. Swing my right arm over in an arc to knock his arm away, exposing his left flank. Jab outward with a right backhand swing. Catch him on the cheekbone hard enough for him to wince. Leap forward, grab his right shoulder with my right hand. Wrap my left hand around the back of his neck to secure him. Hook a leg under his and toss him to the floor.
He thuds onto the practice mat, and I pounce on top of him, grappling until I get him in a headlock.
Grinning, Trent taps out. I rise and offer him a hand. It took a long time before I could beat him, sometimes only because I used my gift.
Trent would always grumble, “That wasn’t a fair fight!”
To which I’d respond, “Life isn’t fair.”
It doesn’t negate the fact winning is always an effort. As Trent accepts my offered hand, I raise an eyebrow. “What’s up? I never take you down that easily.”
Trent sighs and shakes his head. Then he scratches it, takes a sip of water, paces, before giving in to the question I can see he’s already doubting whether he should ask. Or rather, a question to lead into it.
“You think it’s the same person? The guy who took you?”
“Difficult to say. But there are a lot of similarities. I won’t know more until I’ve scouted routes. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?”
Trent finally gives in. “Cap, can you explain what you saw to make you ask for Grace and Matt’s hands?”
Understanding hits me like a gut punch. He was always the softie. From the time we met, he’s tried connecting with me. Attempts I’ve always rebuffed. I won’t lose another person I care about. I was remiss in not pulling him aside and explaining immediately after I gave the order last night. With an apology, I explain.
When I finish, Trent clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles are white. “You should’ve asked for more than their hands.”
So much for me worrying about the sanctity of Trent’s soul. I grin. “Oh, but I didn’t tell you they’re not getting them back.” Trent’s mouth drops open, and I laugh. “You think I’d give Beth back after what they’ve put her through? Returning will be her choice, but based on what I saw, I doubt she’ll want to.”
Trent chuckles. “You devious little minx!”
“I thought you might approve.”
Suddenly, he sobers. “You know that’ll ding your rep?”
“I thought about that too. We won’t tell them we got Beth back. We’ll tell them we got there too late. That way my rep stays intact, Beth goes free in a nice place we find for her, and her parents pay for what they did.”
“Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
“I do. I’ll help Beth the same way I helped you, with no loose ends.”
Trent’s eyes cool. “We’ve been together too long to play games, Forecaster.”
He stresses the name, underlining his awareness of my tenuous position as leader of the Midnight crew. A subtle reminder he knows who I am and where I came from. That I need not hold things over him to keep him in line. That he’s fully aware I’m only in this position because of what happened to me and what made me give up my real name.
Anger flares at the reminder. “If I hadn’t helped you when you had no money, your family would never have escaped. We wouldn’t have dealt with the loan shark, and they wouldn’t be in a new city with new identities and new lives.”
Trent folds his arms, his gaze steely. “If I’d had the money, you would never have learned to fight.”
True. At six-four, built like a tank and with ninja-like speed, Trent was the best ungifted fighter in the underground circuit. While his skill was legendary, he was also smart enough to know he couldn’t protect his family on his own. In exchange for my help, he offered to be my bodyguard for a year. I couldn’t refuse. Not because I wanted him to protect me, but because I wanted him to train me. After the horror I experienced, I never wanted to be vulnerable ever again. I had to be capable of defending myself—and be competent enough to win when I fought back.
“I could’ve learned from someone else!”
“Are you saying I should have stayed with my family instead of fulfilling my promise to come back?”
I snort. “And give up the year of pain you put me through, sweating and hurting and working myself to exhaustion?”
“Your skills needed honing.”
“Yeah, especially with that short-handled glaive you had made for me. You were relentless training me with that.”
Trent’s tone is frosty. “You’re avoiding the question.”
I sigh. “If you hadn’t fulfilled your promise, you never would’ve become my lieutenant.”
The hard lines of his face don’t soften. “That was
your choice. I gave you the option.”
He had. When his year was up and I told him what I planned, he’d said he could be more useful to his family sticking with me—if I’d have him. If he didn’t return, he couldn’t lead the loan shark’s followers back to them, and he could send money back to his family.
I shrug. “You did. It’s a decision I don’t regret. Having a loyal lieutenant at my side to help me build the gang that’s both my protection and the vehicle for my vengeance is a forecast I’m pleased came to fruition. Because it did, you’ve helped me build the most feared gang in the city.”
We’ve grown into a formidable force picking up misfits and outcasts along the way, training them to use their gifts and fight like pros. Don’t misunderstand. The boys didn’t like a woman being in charge—at first. Until I proved I was a worthy leader. Between my ability to see a coup coming before it happens and dealing with perpetrators without mercy, my “throne” is secure. For now, anyway.
Trent still gazes at me with flint in his eyes, still has those arms folded over his muscular chest, still looks ready to toss me out the window. “If you say so.”
With a sigh, I concede. “Okay, okay, I’m being pissy. I’m sorry. I know better than to feel insecure where you’re concerned.”
Finally, Trent relaxes. “Good. I was thinking I’d made the wrong choice.”
“Never! I mean, who’d ever want anything more than this?” I sweep an arm outward, encompassing the open area on the second floor that we use as a training room. Morning sunlight streams in, warming the space.
“At least it’s indoors, still has glass in the windows, and we can afford decent equipment.”
I laugh and flash a smile at him, relieved he’s forgiven me. I could do with more physical exercise to clear the jitters last night gave me. “Ready to go another round?”
“Ready to take a beating?”
“Bring it on!”
Chapter Five
Feet clatter in the corridor outside, rousing me from my nap. After my extended training bout with Trent this morning and the emotional turmoil of last night’s meeting, I was drained. I only planned to rest for a few minutes, but the cotton-candy sky edging toward darkness outside my window informs me night is near.
My door bangs open, and Jones stands there, eyes wide, his hands twisting the cap normally on his head.
“Cap, you gotta come to the gathering chamber.”
I grace him with cool eyes. “Jones, haven’t I told you to knock?”
Jones’s mouth opens and closes a few times, and he blinks. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but a good soul. “Yes, Cap, sorry, Cap. Just that the Lieut told me to come and get you ASAP. Told me to tell you to hurry.”
It’s not like Trent to rush me. Probably why Jones is so out of it. Just in case, I snatch up my glaive. “Lead the way.”
Face sagging with relief, Jones bobs his head and ducks out the room, trekking down the maze of corridors to the gathering chamber. Before we even reach our common room in the basement, I hear jeers.
Sneaking a quick peek at the future, I see a kid cowering in the center of the room, face battered, body bruised. “A recruit?”
Jones nods. “Says he escaped someone who kidnapped him.”
Another kidnapped kid? Two kids in two days? What are the chances? I find my voice. “Crystal’s cleared him?”
Another nod.
Crystal can detect the gifts of others. As our gatekeeper, she not only scans visitors to our guest room but potential recruits, keeping those who would slink under the radar with abilities, dangerous or not, away from our gathering chamber before we’ve had the chance to vet them.
The kid’s presence here means he’s not an Abbie. But I wonder about the state he’s in. Who gave him that beating? If KN sent the boy as a plant, he wouldn’t have thrashed him within an inch of his life. Maybe he sustained those injuries in his escape. But if he escaped, he’s not KN’s stooge. It all begs the question: How did he escape?
I file the thoughts away. Once I’ve dealt with the initiation, getting answers will be at the top of my list.
Striding into the gathering chamber, I go straight to the kid. As a fresh recruit, it’s my job to assess his fighting skills. With a calculated flick, I toss my glaive to Trent before addressing the kid. “I hear you want to join us?”
His nod is uncertain as his eyes careen around the room, searching for clues about how he should behave, what he should expect.
“Let’s get this over with then.” I raise my fists in a ready stance.
The kid’s mouth drops open. “I have to fight you?”
“How else will I gauge your potential? You don’t have to win.”
Snickers flit around the chamber. Whether at the kid’s fear or the ridiculous notion of him standing a chance against my skill and ability, I don’t care. I drop my hands and, turning in a circle where I stand, I glare at my crew. “You all know better. This was you once.”
Cowed, they simmer down. But some members who are older than me still give me the stink eye. I pick on one at random. “Austin, you have something to say?”
His gaze drops immediately.
“Look at me when I talk to you!” His head pops back up. I waltz over to him. Though he doesn’t back away, I know he wants to. “Why are you here?”
Confusion clouds Austin’s face. He stammers a reply. “Because . . . uh, you’re . . . um, I had nowhere else to go?”
“That’s right!” I drill a finger into the side of his head. “Because if I hadn’t taken you in, you’d still be on the streets. Still be running like a scared rabbit from those who were chasing you.” I whirl on the others. “How is this newcomer any different to you and your circumstances when you crawled in here?”
Ashamed faces. Averted gazes. Mutters.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you!”
This time I hear audible affirmations of how I saved them. Staring each of them in the eye, I prowl around the room, pleased when I see submission. “Don’t any of you forget that! And don’t think I won’t know if you get upset with me about this. You know how we deal with those who don’t appreciate how good we have it.”
The implied threats are enough. Satisfied they’re back in line, I amble back to the center of the room. The kid’s green around the gills. But, admirably, he stands his ground. I raise my fists again. “Ready when you are.”
Chapter Six
The kid raises his hands, prepared to fight me, but his stance gives him away. He’s clueless.
The future unfolds for me: I spot the kid’s punch coming before he even decides to throw it. It’s given me an out. Although I’d never let my crew know I thought so, the kid could do with something positive after his ordeal. Getting one over on Forecaster, the notorious nineteen-year-old female leader of the Midnight Gang, will give his fragile ego the boost it so severely needs. And my gang needs a reason to accept him. They must accept him. It’s the only way he’ll stick around. He has to stay—because he might hold the key to the answers I’ve been searching for.
Huffing air, I let a curl fall across my face. My wayward hair will be the “reason” the kid’s blow lands. Heaven knows I need it to land because after the way the kid appeared on our doorstep, half-dead and seeking sanctuary, he’s perceived as weak.
As I bounce around him, waiting for the blow, I study his expression, then wish I hadn’t. Memories of my past come thick and fast. The way my face looked after I was kidnapped. The haunted eyes. The jittery limbs. That caged feeling. Being able to neither escape nor control the situation. A helplessness so intense it’s all-consuming, eroding any desire to even live, let alone think past the next second. Shoving back the memories, I focus on the fight.
Finally! He’s making his move. I time it so his blow lands hard enough to make a noise but not enough to damage. Except I didn’t count on his punch clipping the edge of my old head injury. I flinch, but gasps from the watching crowd turn it into a grim smile. What’s pain
anyway? Nothing but a relative term these days.
The kid stares at me, stupefied.
Too bad you stopped to admire your work. I dance closer, slide under his guard, propel my fist into his jaw. The precise hit knocks him out cold. As he topples, my watching gang members explode in hoots and hollers. Satisfied, I stare down at the kid. When he comes around, everyone will want him next to them.
Goal accomplished. Bunching my unruly hair into a tail, I tie a knot in it. When the dark, silky strands slip back around my shoulders seconds later, I snarl. Biting back the urge to use the profanity I banned (how many times can a girl hear the same word before deciding her crew needs a little creativity?), I snap my fingers. “Jones, find me a freaking hair tie!”
He scuttles off into the dark depths of our basement gathering chamber, and I hide my delight, glimpsing the speculative gazes on several faces. No way they’re thinking I’ve gone soft. Rumors will soon circulate that the only reason the kid landed the blow was because of my loose hair.
Relieved my prophecy held true, I straighten all of my five-foot-eight glory and strut away. Gang members part for me as I head upstairs to my private quarters, escaping the chamber’s darkness for the dying rays of sunlight filtering into my room. The luxurious space at the top of the high-rise has not only intact walls and glass in all its windows, but its own private bathroom and a comfortable living area.
Feeling out of sorts, I take a moment to enjoy the sunset. When the sun disappears, I flop onto my bed—an extravagance few enjoy these days—easing down the zipper of my black leather body suit so I can breathe more easily.
I don’t even have to close my eyes. Unbidden, the images come, options scrolling through my mental projector like a never-ending stream. The future, or what little I can see of it. Its shadowed depths are a constant source of irritation. While I prefer to only dispense the immediate stuff, those are not the forecasts people ask for.
Forecast of Shadows Page 2
