by Tina Donahue
Why was Victor telling him this? Carreon didn’t care who they were or if they were dancing with angels on a cloud. “What about the GPS?” It would lead them to Zeke’s hiding place. “Have you looked at it?”
“Can’t,” Victor said, then continued, the words pouring from him. “Whoever ambushed them shot out the dashboard. Their cell phones are gone. One of Neekoma’s people must have wiped the main server clean, hacked into it, then put in a virus or something. I don’t know, but nothing’s there. We did find another vehicle at your stronghold, but the information in its GPS was deleted.”
Carreon pushed out of his chair and paced the length of the strip club’s office.
Trinidad watched him from the sofa, running her long, manicured nails over her naked thigh. Having slept for a few hours, she looked refreshed, yet indifferent to the drama.
Dark circles ringed Ernez’s eyes. He hadn’t dared close them, no doubt fearful of what his fate might have been if he slumbered. As he shifted from foot to foot, he kept glancing at the door that led to the back lot, probably craving a moment to go out there so he could enjoy a smoke.
Carreon inhaled deeply, then spoke to Victor. “You’re telling me we have no way to find Zeke’s stronghold.”
“We’ll keep trying…looking.”
“Don’t come back until you find it.” He ended the call and hurled the cell phone. It smacked into the wall just to the side of the club’s promotional calendar. The impact separated the phone’s plastic casing with part of it falling to the right, the other to the left.
Carreon went to the sofa.
Trinidad finished her yawn. With maddening apathy, she regarded him.
“You can heal,” he said.
“He’s no longer bleeding,” she answered, inclining her head to Ernez. “Neither are you.” She regarded his earlobe with obvious pride.
Carreon held back an oath. The fucker still stung, the pain hardly banished even after so many hours. Beneath his fingers, the lobe felt puffy and deformed. Liz’s gift and her father’s would have restored it to its original shape, because their abilities would always be stronger than Trinidad’s. Unless… Again, Carreon wondered if the power to heal—to reanimate—was something one could nurture and strengthen with regular use.
There was only one way to find out.
“Ernez.”
The man went to Carreon immediately, while also keeping a safe distance…just out of arm’s reach.
For the moment, Carreon ignored Ernez’s prudent caution and spoke to Trinidad. “Give me your knife.”
She regarded the injury she’d given Ernez and delivered her switchblade with a smile.
“Your hand,” Carreon said to the younger man. “The one that hasn’t been cut.”
Ernez backed up a step.
Carreon depressed the button that released the blade. Ernez flinched at its silky whoosh, then stared at the gleaming metal as though it were a living thing, a monster from a horrible nightmare.
“Now,” Carreon ordered.
Ernez didn’t move. He seemed unable to breathe.
When he’d murdered his own cousin on Carreon’s orders, he’d shown no fear or hesitation. Then he’d been obedient and brave. No longer.
He whispered, “Please don’t.”
Please don’t? Did the idiot actually believe that would change anything? Carreon needed to test the extent of Trinidad’s power. He had to use her for his own ends until he had Liz and her father back, which he would. He’d also have Zeke, torturing him into revealing his visions.
“It’s either your hand or your balls,” Carreon said, offering a choice.
Ernez trembled. He put out his hand. It shook badly.
“Would you like me to hold him still?” Trinidad asked.
“Bitch,” Ernez growled.
“Yes,” she said, leveling her gaze on him. “What of it?”
“Cut her,” Ernez begged Carreon. “See if she can heal herself.”
“I’d rather see if she can heal you.”
“I don’t mind.” She pushed to her feet and held out her hand, palm up, as steady as a physician prepared to perform major surgery. “Go on.”
Carreon was nearly tempted to do so, to see if he could pull some emotion from her. However, the small mark on her palm stopped him. What if the knife injured more than her tissue, veins and tendons? What if it reduced her healing gift even more? What if she was his last hope for healing and reanimation because he couldn’t get Liz and her father back? If they remained with Zeke—
No. They wouldn’t. Somehow he’d see all three of them imprisoned.
Failure wasn’t something Carreon would accept. Nor did he have time to strengthen Trinidad’s gift bit by bit with minor wounds.
He closed the blade and tossed the weapon back to her. She caught it in one hand, holding it in her fingers as she might a cigarette. “You want me to cut him?”
Ignoring her, Carreon spoke to Ernez. “Which of the strippers is the least popular with the customers?”
Trinidad answered before he could. “Maria. She’s old. Nearly thirty-five. She should have quit a long time ago.”
Indeed, she should have. A woman past thirty was a senior citizen when it came to stripping and whoring.
“Call Maria,” Carreon ordered Ernez. The club had been closed for several hours and wouldn’t reopen until late tonight. No doubt, Maria was at home sound asleep, having no idea what her future would bring. “Tell her to get her ass back to the club if she wants to earn four times what she usually does. The boss has a special project for her.”
One she hadn’t asked for and certainly wouldn’t want once she found out what it was. Couldn’t be helped. Carreon didn’t have time to play at this. He needed his doubts answered, no matter the outcome to anyone else.
Chapter Six
Liz was back in the Jeep.
How she got there she didn’t know, couldn’t recall. In a part of her mind unaffected by fatigue, she wondered if she was dreaming.
Zeke drove. Her father sat in the back of the vehicle, his leg twisted in a way no limb should ever be. Gasping in surprise, Liz leaned over the seat to heal him.
“No!” Zeke shouted.
At the thunderous sound, Liz snatched back her hands. A volley of gunfire hit the Jeep, the strident rip of metal hurting her ears.
She slapped her hands over them. In that same instant, a wave of exhaustion hit so hard she had to fight to stay conscious.
“Tired?” her father asked. He spoke quietly, the sound seeming to come from a great distance. The same as when she’d died and gone to the other side and he’d brought her—
“Liz, are you tired?” he repeated.
Yes. Why? Her mind struggled to find an answer. It drifted close, then fluttered away, leaving her with the sense that her fatigue had something to do with him.
“Don’t heal your father,” Zeke warned. “Don’t heal anyone.”
Why?
Instinctively, Liz reached for Zeke and touched a downy material instead, as soft as cashmere. With a start, she awoke and squinted at the limestone walls, glowing faintly like a nightlight, weakening the shadows. She rolled over and nearly fell off the mattress rather than running into Zeke’s big body.
Where is he?
She left the bed and stumbled into the bath, her legs wobbly from lingering fatigue and disuse.
The room was empty.
Liz tried to bring back her disturbing dream, suddenly realizing she’d had one. Something to do with Zeke and…a leg? Biting her lower lip, she thought hard, but the images refused to return.
She circled the bath, searching for a hidden door that led to a hallway Zeke might have gone down…or perhaps another room he was in. Similar to the one where he’d put her last night when the battle broke out. He’d had no reason to believe she’d find a way to escape.
She had and returned to Carreon’s stronghold, determined to take him down so he couldn’t harm Zeke or her father ever again. She�
��d hoped Carreon’s absence would make his lieutenants scatter in panic, no different from frightened vermin. Instead, Carreon had murdered her. Exactly as Zeke’s visions had warned.
As far as Liz could determine, there weren’t any hidden entrances in here that led to a concealed area. She glanced at the bedroom’s double doors. Had one of Zeke’s people come here while she’d slept and awakened him to more trouble? Not Carreon’s men having returned. If they had, she would have heard gunfire. Zeke would have taken her to a safe place, another secret room that he would have made certain she couldn’t escape. No, this trouble would have to do with his clan. Had they decided he had to leave after all, along with her and her father?
Hurriedly, Liz went to her clothes, then curled her upper lip at the thought of putting them on again. Blood and dirt stiffened parts of the fabric. After a brief search, she found Zeke’s tees in a nightstand drawer. The one she pulled on hung halfway down her thighs and smelled of fabric softener rather than him. His jeans were far too large for her to wear. She settled for a pair of stretchy boxers rather than briefs, that she knotted at her waist so they’d stay up. The edge of the navy fabric skimmed her knees.
At the limestone wall, she mimicked Zeke’s earlier movements, which turned the surface into a mirror.
Ugh. Liz made a face at how shitty and ridiculous she looked, but at least she was covered.
Now all she had to do was leave the room. She paused at the double doors and hoped to God that they’d open. On the day Zeke and Jacob had argued about sharing her, Zeke had locked Liz inside Jacob’s bedroom, telling his brother not to come anywhere near her. Jacob had countered that it was his fucking space. He had a right to go inside. That argument hadn’t swayed Zeke.
She tried the handle, astounded that it turned, but didn’t take more than one step into the hall.
Jacob was leaning against the wood paneling, his arms crossed over a pile of clothes that he held to his chest.
He actually blushed at her presence. Liz’s face warmed as she recalled the intimacies they’d shared. The taste of his mouth, balls and cock. His strength as he pounded his rigid shaft into her. His satisfied huffs when he climaxed, then held her close, not allowing her to escape…to return to Zeke.
At last, Jacob met her gaze.
His color deepened. From embarrassment or desire, Liz didn’t know. Could be it was a bit of both. He glanced away quickly as though he feared her reading his emotions. His attention snagged on her makeshift outfit. He pressed his lips together as one did when fighting laughter.
She sighed. “It was all I could find. Those for me?”
He seemed to recall that he was holding a pair of jeans, a pale yellow tee, underwear and suede moccasins. Clearly, they were from one of the younger women, just as Liz’s last outfit had been.
“Yeah.” He handed the items over.
Their hands brushed as Liz took the clothing. Longing flooded Jacob’s face. He glanced at her once more, then looked past.
So different from when they’d first met. Then he’d been pure Alpha, trying to outdo Zeke, determined to make her want him the most. Oddly enough, Liz found Jacob more endearing now than she had when he’d been putting on his macho act.
And an act it had been. She sensed this was the real Jacob. Filled with uncertainty. Touchingly sweet. “Thanks.”
He nodded. “When you’re dressed, I’ll take you to the dining room.”
Liz already knew the way, having been there several times before. “Where’s Zeke?”
Jacob hesitated a moment, then shrugged.
Okay. So he knew where his brother was, but wasn’t telling. Rather than confront him on it, Liz backed into the room. “I’ll be out in a sec.”
He didn’t try to follow her inside as he might have yesterday. Like a good boy—or a man who’d lost a battle he hadn’t had a chance of winning—he waited in the hall.
As she pulled on the garments, Liz thought she’d heard him sighing a couple of times. She wanted to talk to him, have a real conversation about his feelings, what was going through his mind, but didn’t dare. He might not be the arrogant Alpha he’d tried to portray, but he was still a man. His insecurity would only intensify if she acknowledged it.
Once she’d dressed, they headed for the communal dining area, walking side by side toward the mouthwatering scents of freshly baked bread, bacon, cinnamon and coffee that had wafted up here. Not liking their uncomfortable silence, Liz asked, “How’s your leg?”
Jacob regarded it. “Good as new.”
“And your jaw?”
His hand flew to the nasty bruising as though he was surprised she’d noticed it. Upon touching the discoloration, he winced.
“Bad, huh?” she asked.
“It’s fine. Hardly hurts anymore.”
Sure. “Want me to heal—”
“No.”
He’d cut her off so quickly, Liz stopped. After a few steps, Jacob also came to a halt and glanced over. Again, their eyes met. In his, she saw concern and a longing so deep it stole her breath.
When Liz had told Zeke she didn’t want him and Jacob fighting over her, Zeke had dismissed her concern, stating that Jacob was just being the younger brother, wanting what his older sibling had. His feelings had everything to do with envy and lust, not love.
At the time, Zeke’s explanation had seemed reasonable. Not now. Liz saw something in Jacob’s expression she’d also seen in Zeke’s whenever he looked at her.
My God.
Before Liz could voice her thoughts, Jacob continued down the hall. He kept his distance even after she’d caught up, clearly honoring his brother’s claim.
Because Zeke had saved his life during last night’s battle? Because Kele’s foolish desire for him had caused it? Whatever the reason, it seemed to have touched something deep within Jacob. Changing him, making him grow up to become a man much like his brother. Kind. Honorable.
Those qualities in Jacob called to Liz as they had with Zeke. She longed to take his hand and offer some comfort, perhaps friendship, but didn’t, sensing he’d pull away.
At the landing, he stopped and gestured for her to go first. “They won’t be serving breakfast much longer,” he mumbled. “We better hurry.”
“Are you protecting me from your clan?”
Surprise flooded his handsome face. “No. They’d never do anything to hurt you. They’re not like your people.”
That should have stung, but didn’t. So many misconceptions and bad feelings had flowed between their clans for so long, everyone’s distrust had hardened into stubborn hate. “Not all of my people are bad.” I’m not. Neither is my father.
He pushed his fingers through his hair, pulling it off his shoulder. “No one’s going to bother you here. We voted, remember?”
Liz recalled the ones that had wanted her and her father gone. Isabel in particular.
“Is my father in the dining room?” she asked. “Is he all right?”
Jacob huffed out a sigh. “God, you ask a lot of questions.”
“That’s what Zeke said. You two really are alike, you know that?”
Clearly uneasy, he muttered, “No, we’re not. You love him.”
He regarded her more fully than he had before, defeat in his expression. Without waiting for her response, which he didn’t seem to want to hear, he went down the stairs toward the dining area.
Zeke tried to ignore the personal touches in Bartholomew’s room, knowing they’d resurrect his anguish at losing such a good friend. Despite his struggle, he moved closer to the photographs, somehow pulled by them.
In one, a much younger Bartholomew wore a maroon cap and gown. He clutched his high school diploma in his left hand, his smile broad and relieved. He’d made it through all the academic shit he hated and the state required. In those days, the clan lived outside the stronghold just like normal folk. Carreon’s father had been in charge, and even though he was no pussycat, he’d honored a truce between their people.
In t
he next photo, taken several years later, Bartholomew had his foot propped on the sparkling grill of a 1957 Chevy that he’d painted in its original colors. Aqua and white. He was heavier than he’d been in the graduation picture, his grin one of pure pleasure. If Carreon hadn’t taken over and renewed the fighting between their people—if Bartholomew hadn’t given his life to save the rest of the clan—he would have made a real success of his auto restoration business.
He might have married and had kids. A future everyone else in this country expected as their God-given right.
Agonizing sorrow gripped Zeke at all the interrupted dreams, the senseless and continuing murders. He understood his clan’s fury, them not wanting Liz and her father here. They’d lost a good man and for what? So their leader could have the woman he desired?
Heartsick, Zeke ran his hand down his face and turned from the photos to the bed.
Dr. Munez lay on the narrow mattress, no longer asleep. He seemed more curious than alarmed that Zeke was in the room. No surprise. Carreon had imprisoned Munez for so long, surely very little shocked the old man.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Zeke said. He pulled a chair next to the bed.
Munez pushed to a sitting position and swung his naked legs over the side of the mattress. He’d washed off last night’s gore and grime, and wore one of Bartholomew’s T-shirts that was several sizes too large for him. The rounded neck sagged beneath Munez’s thin throat.
Zeke sank into his chair. “How’s your ankle?”
“Fine.” He lifted his leg to show it wasn’t bruised or swollen any longer. Liz’s healing touch had taken care of it…after he’d reanimated her.
A wave of nausea hit so hard, Zeke had to swallow repeatedly to force it down. Taking a full breath wasn’t something he figured he could do right now. Although he had meant to broach the subject carefully, the words spilled from him. “Liz isn’t fully back, is she?”
Munez’s hands stalled on his head, not all of his hair smoothed back. A tuft on the left side stuck out defiantly. He didn’t bother combing his fingers through it.
When the man didn’t comment, Zeke added, “You noticed it too, in the Jeep. That’s why you touched her shoulder. You brought her back again.”
