Last Kiss Goodnight oa-1

by Gena Showalter

  Three of Jecis’s guards suddenly entered the tent, each drinking from a half-empty bottle of booze. The trio stumbled toward Criss’s wheel, two of them arguing over who would get to have her first, and the third vowing to tame Kitten after he watched the other girl’s violation.

  Solo scanned the rest of the otherworlders. Except for the Targon, all eyes were closed, as if the prisoners couldn’t bear to watch what they couldn’t stop. Not the Targon, though. His eyes were open. His body was tense, each of his muscles knotted, as if he prepared to fight.

  “Kaamil-Alize,” Solo growled.

  The Targon’s attention swung his way, and they shared a moment of understanding. They had to do something. Anything.

  Bottom line: He couldn’t allow this. For the women, and for Vika. She would try to stop the men. They would turn on her, Jecis’s daughter or not. They were drunk. They wouldn’t care.

  The thought of Vika attacked . . . hurt by these disgusting humans . . . perhaps thrown down and stripped, perhaps even touched in ways she would forever despise. No! A new spurt of the drugs flowed through Solo’s veins, but not even that could dampen the chill of his determination.

  Gritting his teeth, growling, he put all of his strength into his right arm, lifting . . . lifting . . . Muscles pulled and tendons tore, but still he lifted—until the metal from the wheel could no longer handle the strain and snapped away. Warm blood trickled down his arm.

  The humans had reached Criss. They were too busy fondling her to notice Solo.

  “What are you doing?” Dr. E demanded. “Stop! You’re hurting yourself.”

  Funny thing. The being sounded incensed rather than concerned.

  Solo ripped off the muzzle, and his arm dropped limply to his side. The cuff was still there, still active, but at the moment he only cared about range of motion. Immediately he began to work on the other arm, lifting despite the pain, until those shackles fell away.

  One of the guards heard him and glanced back. He noticed Solo’s half-free state and paled, slapping at his friends to get their attention. They spotted him and finally stopped laughing.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Enough of that.”

  They surged forward, and out raced Vika, whipping in front of Solo and spreading her arms.

  “Leave him alone!” she shouted.

  They paused, Solo momentarily forgotten.

  “And what do we have here?” one said.

  “A naughty little girl, that’s what.”

  “I’ve always wanted me a piece of you, Vika Lukas, and here you are, throwing yourself at me. Jecis will surely understand if I take you up on your offer. Especially since he’s made it more than clear he’s done protecting you.”

  The three moved toward her, only to freeze in place halfway. Each had a foot lifted in mid-stride. Each leered at Vika, expression unchanging.

  “I’ll hold them as long as I can,” the Targon said through gritted teeth.

  Solo had known Targon warriors possessed the ability to manipulate energy molecules and control the human body, but he’d assumed this particular warrior was too drugged to ever do so.

  Vika swung to face Solo, her eyes wide. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  Solo didn’t waste any time. Only his legs remained bound. As he tugged and jerked, one of his kneecaps popped out of place, but that didn’t stop him either. Nothing could, and finally he was free, falling from the wheel . . . crashing into the ground.

  Through sheer grit and willpower he lumbered to his feet. Black dots wove through his vision as Vika rushed to his side, her soft hands flattening on his chest.

  “Oh, Solo,” she breathed. “You’re hurt.”

  He picked her up by the waist and set her behind him.

  “Do what needs doing,” X said, his voice strained.

  Even as he spoke, Solo felt another flood of warmth through his veins. Only this warmth didn’t spring from the drugs. It came from X. Bones began to snap back into place. Muscles began to weave back together.

  The moment he was completely healed, X vanished.

  And Solo. Utterly. Un. Leashed.

  He surged forward, arms pumping at his sides, legs increasing in speed, until he left a trail of fire in his wake. He plowed into the guards and they jetted to the ground, hit hard. He ripped out the trachea of one—with his teeth—while clawing through the throat of another. Both acts happened in two seconds flat.

  The third, finally able to move, tried to scramble away from him, but Solo picked him up. He stood, blood dribbling down his chin, and slammed the male into the ground from left to right, left to right, over and over again, until he was panting, until his arms burned, until there was nothing left and he was holding only a blood-soaked coat.

  Dr. E said something. The otherworlders called out to him. Solo was too lost to his rage to understand the actual words. He had to destroy this place. Had to ensure Vika never again suffered at the hands of these monsters. Had to save the others like him.

  He plowed into the little ice cream shop, tilting the tin building to its side. The equipment scattered to the floor. Bottles of flavoring spilled, scenting the air with strawberries and vanilla. The fragrance only incensed him further, reminding him of the humans. Of being touched when he hadn’t wanted to be touched. He shredded the building, leaving only confetti, uncaring when jagged shards of tin cut him.

  A group of males rushed into the tent to find out what was causing such a commotion. Eight, Solo counted as he straightened, ready for more. Wanting more. They spotted him and ground to a halt. Solo knew his skin had turned red. Knew his bones had enlarged, his ears had extended into sharp little points, his fangs had sprouted, and his claws had lengthened. He was the monster their mothers had probably always warned them about. The one under their bed, or in their closets. The one who would steal their souls.

  He leapt into motion and slammed into them, a bowling ball to the pins. They fought against him, but they could not contain him. They tried, oh, they tried, but Solo ripped arms from sockets, ripped spines from beneath their fleshly coverings, bit and clawed and tossed his opponents in every direction—in little bitty pieces.

  “Solo,” he heard.

  Soft, whispery. Frightened.

  He whipped around, panting, nostrils flaring, his big body tense, his claws raised and ready to slash whatever had dared to frighten Vika. Wide plum-colored eyes peered over at him—and he was the target of her fear.

  “Vika,” he said, his voice nothing more than a broken scrape.

  She was still standing in front of his wheel, her little body quavering, her arms wrapped around her middle. “The others,” she said, and motioned to the otherworlders. “Let’s free them and go.”

  She still wished to leave with him.

  He would do whatever she asked.

  He rushed to Kitten’s wheel. She had been struggling against her bonds, and blood was dripping down her arms. He reached out, yanked, and ripped one of the bars from the wheel, taking a huge hunk of wood with it.

  “Watching you work was a real pleasure,” she said. “But you aren’t part of AIR, are you? I’m guessing you’re black ops all the way, baby.”

  Silent, he reached for the second bar.

  Footsteps sounded behind him, and Kitten paled.

  “Go,” she said. “Come back for me later. With guns. And Dallas.”

  He turned. Four other males and two females had just run into the tent. They stopped to catalogue the carnage, as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing. One of the females unleashed a blood-curdling scream.

  His gaze swung to Vika. She was at Criss’s wheel, tugging ineffectually at one of the bars. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the rest of the otherworlders begged and pleaded with her to hurry.

  He had a choice to make. Vika, or all the others. Right now, he couldn’t have both. The knowledge frustrated him, enraged him further, and guilt immediately began to chew on his bones. Because honestly?
He didn’t need a moment to think. He already knew what he was going to do: grab Vika and run.

  He would come back, though. There was no question about that. He wouldn’t leave these people defenseless for any longer than necessary.

  Decided, he rushed to Vika’s side and scooped her up.

  “If you want to save anything here,” the Targon called, “I’d return in nine days.”

  Why nine days?

  “My bag,” Vika gasped out. “Please! I need it.”

  The males had finally looked past the pile of dead bodies and the pools of blood and noticed him. Shouts erupted. Solo backtracked, grabbed the bag’s strap, and fit it over his shoulder. The moment the weight settled against him, surprise filled him. Little Vika had carried this thing? On her own? It had to weigh a hundred pounds, at the very least.

  Another group of men entered the tent, claiming his attention—and Jecis occupied the center. His stormy gaze locked on Solo, and the skull he always carried with him, the one that moved of its own accord, separate from his own bones, that dark presence, tilted back, stretched open its jaw, and shrieked.

  One day, we’ll have our showdown, Solo vowed, and ran in the opposite direction. One day very soon.

  Twenty-four

  Hurry, my beloved, and be like a gazelle or a young stag on the mountains of spices.

  —SONG OF SOLOMON 8:14

  S OLO CARRIED VIKA AND her bag through the night, into the mountains. He had to be freezing. She was. And he was naked, and frost practically coated the air.

  “I brought you clothes and shoes,” she said through chattering teeth. “They’re in the bag.”

  Maybe he replied, maybe he didn’t. Either way, he kept going.

  What had happened inside the tent . . . Total devastation was the only way to describe it. He had morphed into the raging red beast the others had called him. He had hurt people. He had killed.

  He had protected.

  She hadn’t been afraid of him, and the knowledge had stunned her. He would never hurt her, and deep down, where the knowing he’d taught her about swirled, she’d understood that. She’d been afraid for him.

  Any moment, someone could have walked into the tent with a gun and shot him. If that had happened, her father would have killed him, not just to punish him for what he’d done but because Jecis would have feared him, even behind the cage.

  “I can walk,” she said, not wanting him to have to carry the entire burden of their escape.

  He set her down without ever breaking stride, clasped her hand, and dragged her behind him. They maneuvered around trees—so many trees!—and over thick stumps. An eternity later, he glanced back at her.

  “Questions? Concerns? Comments?”

  “Where are we?” she asked. Jecis hadn’t said. All she knew was that she’d never been here.

  “The New Kolyma region of the Russian Far East.”

  “Siberia?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

  Up, up, faster and faster, he led her through the snow. Snow on the ground, snow on the beautiful trees. A true winter wonderland, stunning in its beauty. Harsh in its treachery. How quickly could a person freeze to death out here?

  Sadly, that wasn’t the least of her troubles. Jecis would follow. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. He would feel no rush. After all, he could locate Solo at any time. But he would gather the troops and come after them.

  Vika would be wise to ditch Solo now and strike out on her own. It was what she’d planned to do while they were trapped in the Nolands. Now . . .

  She just couldn’t bring herself to leave him.

  He looked back at her, saying, “Shout if you need me to stop.”

  “I will.” And she almost shouted a thousand times in the next five minutes, but somehow, she held the sound inside. She wanted as much distance between them and the circus as possible, even if she had to suffer to get it.

  The higher up the mountain they went, the thicker the trees became and the rockier the terrain. Eventually, Vika lost track of time. All she knew was that she was shivering uncontrollably and her muscles were as heavy as boulders. Her lungs burned.

  Solo glanced back at her a second time, slowed his pace, then stopped. “We’ll stop for the night,” he said. He wasn’t winded and didn’t seem cold.

  “Because you found a safe place?” she asked hopefully.

  “Because you’re tired.”

  As she’d suspected. “I don’t care. Keep going until you find a safe place.” They needed every advantage they could get.

  He studied her intently, pride glowing in those baby blues. “Very well.”

  Was that pride directed at her?

  She expected to leap back into motion. Instead, he dropped the bag and unzipped the top. The clothes she’d stolen from her father rested on top. Although not a single garment belonged to Jecis. Rather, Jecis had stolen them from the Targon and were the perfect size for Solo.

  Size—the reason no one human had bought them. The material was as black as night, and possessed a soft, luxuriant quality.

  He slipped into the shirt and the pants, then with drew the clothes she’d brought for herself and tossed them at her.

  “How about we leave the bag behind?” he asked as he tugged on the socks and boots.

  What? “No!” Removing her coat was actually painful, the cold air biting at every section of exposed skin, but somehow she found the strength to do it. Next she shucked the dress.

  Solo averted his eyes, saying, “It’s excess baggage, and I mean that literally.”

  “It’s my life.” The sweatshirt and pants bagged on her, but oh, they were toasty warm, having been snuggled up to Solo’s body during the entire trek.

  “I heard jewelry banging around in there.”

  “Exactly.”

  An eager gleam that rivaled the beauty of the moonlight entered his eyes. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

  When she’d gone to hell and back for these? “Give the bag to me, and I’ll carry it.”

  Frowning, he once again fit the strap over his shoulder.

  “Solo,” she said.

  “Vika.” Without another word, he linked their fingers and urged her forward.

  • • •

  Solo reveled in his freedom. He still wore the cuffs, yes, but he was no longer behind bars. He was no longer strapped to a wheel, a scratch pad for anyone with an itch. He had his woman at his side, and the only danger currently stalking them was the weather.

  He’d listened, he’d watched, and he knew Jecis had stayed behind. Still, Solo wanted as much distance between them as possible tonight. Tomorrow, he would drag Vika what would probably seem to be a thousand miles, and the more they ran tonight, the less they’d have to trek while she was sore and hungry, her adrenaline depleted.

  No, he thought next, he wouldn’t allow her to become hungry. The moment he had her tucked into a warm little crevice, she would fall asleep and he would hunt. But wow, already she was holding up better than he’d hoped. His tiny little fluff of nothing had a stubborn streak that wouldn’t allow her to quit—or even slow. She might appear to be asleep on her feet, but she matched him step for step.

  “What are we going to do?” she huffed.

  “Avoid the towns, for one.” Many Americans had moved to Siberia immediately following the human-alien war, since Siberia was supposedly the only land free of the otherworlders’ “taint.” Actually, otherworlders were usually shot on sight here. “My boss, Michael, has a cabin on the border.” Michael had homes in every state, every country. Maybe even every city. That was how he kept his agents hidden, no matter where they were or what they had to do. “We’ll make our way there.”

  They reached a little clearing, where a tree had fallen, the center hollowed out by weather and age. No one would be able to hide nearby. He would see and hear anyone who approached. And he could share his body heat with Vika inside the stump. This was as good as it was going to get.

  He
dropped the bag beside the tree, urged Vika to settle inside the center, and worked on gathering nearby stones. He’d wanted ten but could only find eight. Oh, well. That would have to do. He cleared the snow from a small section of land and used the rocks to form a circle. Next he gathered twigs and piled them inside the rocks.

  He sat beside Vika, claimed two of the stones, and struck them together.

  “As much as I’d love to watch you create a fire that way, because it’s very manly and impressive and everything,” she said, “I’d feel guilty if I didn’t tell you there’s a lighter in the bag.”

  He paused, looked at her, and arched a brow. “You came prepared.”

  “I had help,” she admitted after a brief hesitation.

  “Who?”

  “Well . . .” She nibbled on her lower lip as she dug into the bag. Several minutes passed, and she began to mumble under her breath. “Found it!” Grinning, she pulled out a lighter and slapped it into his hand.

  “You never answered my question, Vika.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, do you remember those invisible men we’ve talked about?”

  “Yes.” He lit the end of one of the twigs, flames quickly catching and crackling and spreading to the others. Heat wafted toward them, and smoke curled through the air.

  “I wasn’t ever going to tell you, unless you spilled first, but waiting kind of seems silly now, after everything. So, here goes. One of them helped me. His name is X and he—”

  “X? My X?”

  “Your X? You do see him, then.”

  “I do. I’ve seen him most of my life.”

  “Well, I started seeing him a few days after you were captured.”

  He had no idea what to think about this development. X had never revealed himself to another person, never expressed a desire to do so, never mentioned doing so, and Solo had assumed it was an impossible feat.

  “What has he said to you?” he demanded.

  Vika groaned. “That question is the very reason I never mentioned his name.”

  Same for Solo. But just like she’d inferred, they were past the point of holding back. “You’re going to spill whether you want to or not.”