Last Kiss Goodnight oa-1

by Gena Showalter

  Matas again. The name was beginning to bug him.

  “So . . . what should I call you?” she asked.

  “Bob.”

  A slow smile bloomed. “No way you’re a Bob.”

  “Fred, then.”

  The smile grew. “That’s even worse. But go ahead. Keep lying to me, and I’ll start calling you Jolly Red Giant.”

  He wouldn’t give her a reaction, he told himself. He wouldn’t rip her head from her body when he escaped, either.

  “Has anyone successfully removed their cuffs?” He tucked the fingers of his left hand into the right, and the fingers of his right hand into the left—

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Criss rushed out.

  —and jerked. Immediately pain exploded through him, sharp, cutting from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He fell to his side, spiderwebs of black weaving through his vision, colliding with pinpricks of white and forming a dizzying kaleidoscope.

  “Told you,” he heard Criss sing. “When you pull on the metal, a different type of chemical is shot through your body. One that causes pain rather than lethargy. And don’t think you can leave and remove the things with bolt cutters or something. I was here when a guy got hold of a pair, and when he snipped, the needles in the cuffs motorized, chopping off his hands.”

  Eventually the black and white faded and Solo could see clearly again. He slowly eased to a sitting position. He looked at his wrists and discovered he’d done more harm to himself. The cuffs were still there, still firmly in place, but blood now trickled from underneath the metal.

  “Next time, listen to Auntie Criss. She’s very smart. And beautiful. And talented.”

  And modest.

  “There are tubes running through the metal,” she said, “and if you look closely, you’ll find a little hole in each cuff. That’s where the drugs are administered. We’re put to sleep every few days so that the tubes can be refilled.”

  His frustration and anger intensified, bubbling up, another white-hot fire wanting to spill from him; somehow he managed to hold himself in check. Now wasn’t the time for another temper tantrum. Especially when that temper tantrum would do no good.

  In the distance, he could hear clomping feet, chattering voices, and the roar of car engines.

  “And so it begins,” Criss said with a sigh.

  A deep breath in, and he caught the scent of coffee in the air.

  He found coffee too bitter to enjoy, yet still his mouth watered for a taste of it, and still his stomach twisted hungrily. Yesterday evening’s grain had tasted like dirt, and yet, if he were given another bowl of the stuff—or another piece of chocolate—he would have eaten every morsel. He had to keep his strength up. Obviously.

  “How does this work?” he found himself growling.

  Criss slid into a pool of light and stretched out her legs. Green eyes glittered with resolve, pearlescent skin shone, and finger-combed black hair tumbled over both of her shoulders, shielding what lurked beneath that transparent fabric. “In a few hours, the circus will open and there will be a steady stream of people walking through this area for the rest of the day. Some will simply look at you.” Her voice hardened as she added, “Some will command you to lift your clothing or to turn around and bend over. Jecis will station two armed guards here, and no one will be allowed to touch you, but if you fail to do as you’re told . . .”

  Yeah, he remembered: a bullet to the brain. His skin darkened, and his teeth and claws elongated. The fire burned ever hotter, singeing everything in its path.

  “Don’t give him pointers,” the Bree Lian called. “Let him learn firsthand like the rest of us.”

  Solo already had a beef with him. That just sealed the deal.

  “Let him take the burden for a while,” the Mec added.

  Yeah, Solo had a beef with him, too.

  Several others murmured their agreement. Meaning, they all wanted Solo to occupy Jecis’s mind, so that they could act out without fear. Nice. But fine, whatever. He understood survival.

  He also never forgot a slight.

  Criss waved away their commands, saying, “Little Miss Mouse won’t feed us until after the circus, and then only if we’ve behaved.” She air-quoted the last word, the motion stiff with barely leashed rage.

  That rage would soon tear free, he was sure, and it would make her reckless, willing to do anything to die. Not just throw rocks, but more. A whole lot more. And Little Miss Mouse—Vika, beautiful Vika, with the wounded eyes and the bruised face and the siren’s body and the angel’s kiss—would bear the brunt of it.

  He’d been so careful not to think about her last night. Now . . . there was no stopping the mental tug-of-war that followed.

  She’s mine. I want her.

  Are you stupid? She’s not yours. She belongs to Jecis—you don’t want her.

  I deserve her. After everything I’ve suffered here, she will be my reward.

  She’s not a prize.

  He was as bad as X and Dr. E.

  “Uh-oh. I recognize that look,” Criss said with a moan.

  He forced the muscles in his face to relax, revealing nothing more. “What look?”

  A derisive snort. “Please. Vika’s the big guy’s daughter, you know, and nothing but trouble.”

  See? Vika is a bad apple from a poisoned tree.

  “Besides, I thought you were interested in our sweet little Pussycat,” Criss said with a tilt of her chin.

  His gaze darted to Kitten, who still sprawled on the floor of her cage.

  “Vika does what Daddy says, when he says, and even if you were handsome . . . uh . . . well, anyway, she wouldn’t help you,” Criss said. “I don’t mean to be cruel, just honest.”

  “Enough with the honesty,” the Targon called. “Let’s go for amusement! I’d love to see you try to charm our little Vika, Mr. Fugly.”

  All but Kitten and Criss snickered.

  As if on cue, Dr. E arrived on the scene, settling atop Solo’s shoulder like a bird on a perch. He was paler than usual, a little wobbly on his feet. Why? “They dare tease you? Well, it’s time to teach them better, don’t you think? If you tell Jecis you’re willing to do a little cage fighting free of charge, you can rip these creatures into a thousand pieces without earning a punishment. It’s win/win.”

  “They are as frustrated and angry as he is,” X said, appearing on his right shoulder. He was tanner than usual, for once steady on his feet. “They are lashing out at their circumstances, not Solo.”

  “Enough!” he growled, suddenly sick of the captives, of X, of Dr. E, and all of his many recent failures. He wanted out. He needed out. Drugged or not, there had to be a way.

  Each of the otherworlders peered over at him with differing shades of emotion. Some with terror, some with glee. But no one castigated him, and Dr. E—laughing and suddenly alive with color—and X—sighing with regret and suddenly pallid—once again vanished.

  Solo wrapped his fingers around the bars and shook, shook, shook. Of course, they held steady, causing frustration to rise and eat at what little remained of his control.

  “Uh, I wouldn’t do that, either,” Criss said. “You’ll regret it.”

  He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I’m strong enough for anything, even this. Another shake. But again, the bars held steady. Anger blazed into rage, and the frustration formed jagged edges that sliced through him, making him bleed.

  Now, now, now. Another shake, a harder shake. Shake, shake, shake.

  Rage . . . melding with a sudden burst of weakness . . .

  Frustration . . . blending with a sudden spring of icy water . . .

  The drugs, he realized as his mind hazed. The drugs must activate with stronger emotions, because with every moment that passed, the weakness grew and the icy water flooded another part of him, until he no longer had the strength to grip the bars.

  His arms fell heavily to his sides, and his head lolled forward, his chin hitting his sternum. He lost track of his surroundings and jus
t sort of tipped over. Right before landing, he thought he heard Criss say, “I told you so.”

  Nine

  Break up your fallow ground, and do not sow among thorns.

  —JEREMIAH 4:3

  V IKA PACED INSIDE HER trailer, the second biggest vehicle in the lot. (Her father’s was number one, of course.) The walls were covered with pink lace and draped with several jewel-toned tapestries. Every piece of furniture was plush, white, and expensive. The coffee table was Victorian and the legs carved to resemble dragons. The side tables were topped with crystal vases and ornate bowls.

  A fairy-tale home fit for a fairy-tale princess, her father often said.

  Fine fabrics were strewn about. Velvets, satins, silks, and even the highly expensive cotton. She knew how to sew, and was supposed to design herself “a wardrobe fit for the daughter of a king.” She hadn’t. And she wouldn’t.

  To go along with her clothing, she had jade necklaces, ruby bracelets, and sapphire pendants, plus a set of diamond fingernails with rings of gold that wound all the way to her knuckles, and a brooch in the shape of a lion head, its fur made of amber, its eyes of ebony. Each piece sparkled as the overhead light cast out soft, golden rays. So pretty. So useless. They were items she was currently unable to sell, because her father would miss them.

  “Why don’t you wear the things I give you?” Jecis demanded at least once a week.

  “They’re not my style,” she would say. And so he would try again, giving her something else, something bigger, not understanding she had no desire to wear his guilt offerings—which was exactly what they were.

  But last night at dinner, all that had changed. She had worn one of the necklaces, as planned, and he’d ruffled her hair, quite pleased with her, never noticing the slight bulge of the bandage under her shirt.

  Oh, what a life I lead.

  Her mother would have loved the trailer and the clothes and the jewels. She would have sewn as many gowns as possible, and danced across the entire home, laughing and twirling, and making Vika giggle.

  A sudden lance of sadness pierced her. Her beautiful mother, who had claimed to love her more than anything, but had left her only child to run away with her lover.

  Within a few days, Jecis had found her and dragged her back. Then, the next morning, he had summoned all the performers in one place and announced that his wife had died of a black, rotting heart. And that was true. Jecis had a black, rotting heart, and he’d killed her.

  Vika had no idea what had happened to the lover.

  Anyway, she wasn’t going to ponder the past, she reminded herself. She would think about today: opening day for the circus in New Atlanta.

  She was to stay inside her trailer until her father finished with all of his duties and performances. She was to relax, eat her many chocolates, and enjoy herself, as if hours and hours with nothing to do but count her savings (for the three thousandth time) was fun, while everyone else within their circus “family” worked for their food and lodging, not just by helping with clothing, tents, games and vehicles, but through performing.

  Vika was only to care for the otherworlders after the patrons left. That way, the townies never saw her, never tried to harm her, and heads never had to roll. More importantly, the circus never had to move to a new location sooner than planned, simply to avoid the law.

  Jecis wanted Vika safe—from everyone but him.

  When will you learn, Vika? There cannot be two masters in one house. You do what I say, when I say, or you suffer. I love you, but I cannot make allowances for you, just because you’re my only child.

  A father who loved his daughter would not beat her. A father who loved his daughter would not maim and exile one of her only two friends, forcing her to give up the other for fear of watching the girl receive the same treatment. A father who loved his daughter would not murder her precious pets.

  I just want to live in peace.

  And yet, still she hadn’t stayed inside today. She had spent five minutes out in the open, running through the zoo to check on the newcomer. Five minutes, that was all, but in her father’s opinion that was five minutes too long.

  A shudder nearly rocked her off her feet, and she tumbled onto the couch. How she wished Jecis was the man he used to be, the man who had listened to her stories about butterflies and tucked her in at night, but everything had changed when her grandfather died and he took over the circus.

  The place had been in horrible shape, facing financial ruin. Money had quickly become Jecis’s only concern and he’d begun selling drugs and women in between acts. He’d had to do terrible things to keep his employees in line and his secrets in the dark, and those things had destroyed the man she’d known. But his pockets had filled, and that had been all that mattered to him. Within a year, he’d turned the place around—and his own terrible transformation had been complete.

  If he found out what she’d done today, he would punish her for placing herself in danger.

  If. Ha. He would. Too many people had seen her, just like she’d known they would.

  Why had she done it, then?

  There was no need to ponder; she already knew the answer. She’d done it because she couldn’t get the prisoner out of her mind. A thousand times she had remembered how she’d had her hands on him. Her bare hands. Male to female, heat to heat. A thousand more, she had remembered how she’d had her mouth on him—and just how much she’d liked it.

  Suddenly she felt the vibration of someone’s . . . scream against her skin? Oh, yes. A scream. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She nearly threw open her door to peek outside.

  The newest addition to the zoo had finally reached the end of his tolerance.

  Sympathy welled inside her. All night he’d desperately fought to free himself, yet he’d made no progress. Fearing her father would hear his curses and decide to act, she had waited nearby, ready to doctor his injuries. But Jecis had never appeared, and the newcomer had continued to struggle, until the realization that he was stuck in the cage had at last settled in. Anger had contorted his features and his skin had taken on that crimson cast. His teeth and claws had grown, and though she should have run away in fear, the alteration had fascinated Vika.

  Because . . . no matter how much his body had changed, his eyes had remained the same: big and blue, with those long dark lashes better suited to a woman. Innocent eyes. Haunting eyes.

  Otherworldly eyes.

  Like everyone else, Vika knew about the inhabited planets out there. But unlike everyone else, she also knew there was an unseen world operating here, on earth, all around them. And it amazed her how close the two worlds actually were. As many times as she had fought death, she had caught glimpses of that world and knew that there was absolute good and absolute evil—and both were as real as she was.

  One step, that was all it took, and the spirit could leave the body and enter that other realm.

  The newest prisoner should have reminded her of the evil side, but he hadn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  She’d returned to her trailer, and waited for someone to deliver her breakfast. A few minutes after that, she’d snuck out and returned to the zoo, where she’d thrown the food in his cage. Had he sampled the synbacon, biscuits, or cubes of honey? He’d been awake. He’d seen her, but he hadn’t tried to catch the burlap sack, and if he’d said anything, she wasn’t aware of it. She’d kept her attention away from him. Had they locked gazes, he might have tried to speak to her and she would have been tempted to stay.

  She owed him another apology, after all. He’d been at his weakest, and she’d taken terrible advantage of him. It was just . . . wait. Was she going to do this? Was she going to think about the kiss now? When she’d avoided the topic all night?

  Yes. She was.

  Why had she pressed her lips against his? Why? That wasn’t like her. Desire wasn’t something she experienced, and yet she had been drawn to him on a primitive level. An undeniable level. Now, a part of her she’d th
ought destroyed long ago, a needy little girl who’d dreamed of a handsome Prince Charming coming to rescue her, kept stretching . . . stretching . . . finally awakening completely. Only, this prince was alone, just like her. He needed a friend, just like her.

  Dangerous thoughts. Thoughts that had once gotten her in trouble. First, she could only count on herself, and she knew it. Second, she had befriended one of the first otherworlders to be captured, had actually grown to love and adore the girl. Had snuck out every night to spend with her, with her sweet Mara, and they had talked, shared stories about their lives.

  Eventually, Vika had freed Mara and all the others.

  And she had suffered terribly for her actions.

  She knew better than to travel down that road again. And yet, all she’d seemed to care about was that the newcomer wasn’t used to hunger, and more than that, he was in for a horrible surprise when the circus opened in a few hours. She’d wanted him to experience something nice today.

  If he tossed away the food, fine. His loss. She would have done a good deed, and she could—

  The overhead lights flickered, and she groaned. She didn’t have a bell; instead, the lighting system was rigged to alert her to a waiting guest.

  Her stomach cramped as she stood and shakily turned the knob. Thankfully, it wasn’t her father come to chastise her for her disobedience. Unfortunately, it was Matas, her “bodyguard,” and he radiated menace.

  Meeting his gaze, she snapped, “What do you want?”

  “Let me in,” he demanded with his patented scowl. He had tousled dark hair and eyes the color of black ice. He possessed a dusty complexion, and he was big of chest and arm—and pride and ferocity.

  Today he’d opted to wear pants but no shirt, revealing the thick silver barbell hanging from his left nipple. He was certain it made him look chilled. Was that the right word? Cold? Cool? To Vika, it made him look like a hammer. Wrench? Whatever! He looked like some kind of tool.