Taken by Fire

by Sydney Croft

  Phoebe liked sex, drugs, and violence, often all at the same time, and it was always Melanie who paid the price when she woke up in the body Phoebe had used hard.

  At least this morning Melanie had awakened in their own bed instead of some stranger’s. That was always a plus.

  Melanie tightened the sash on her robe, though even that wasn’t hers, was it? Almost everything in the apartment, from the furniture to the clothes to the food, was Phoebe’s. Every time Melanie bought something for herself, Phoebe destroyed it. Melanie’s only possessions consisted of a few paperbacks and college textbooks in the nightstand drawer, and her mother’s gold ring in the wall safe that Phoebe had promised not to break into.

  Mel also had a few files on the computer—her college courses. It was stupid, she knew, but she wanted desperately to do something for herself, even if that something was an art degree she’d never use. Obviously, when she had possession of the body she and Phoebe shared for only around ten hours a day, the degree was going to take forever to earn, and at some point would require Phoebe’s cooperation.

  How Melanie was going to manage that was the question of the century. Especially when all they did now was fight and see who could hurt who the most. Mel had no idea how she was going to pay Phoebe back for killing her fish … though as she eyed a pair of scissors on the counter, she wondered how her sister would like really short hair …

  The buzzing of a cellphone reminded her that she needed to get her butt in gear. The ringtone belonged to Itor’s big boss, Alek.

  Who was also their father. Not that he behaved like one. And why should he? He was nothing but a sperm donor who had jerked off into a cup so his semen could be used to fertilize an egg in a petri dish. Melanie had no idea how he treated Phoebe, but she knew very well how he treated her. The son of a bitch despised her, acted like she was a traitor, even though she had nothing to do with Itor, didn’t know anyone inside the operation, and, really, didn’t even know what the agency’s entire purpose was. Phoebe had kept everything a mystery, and only by piecing together tiny chunks of information over the years had Melanie learned what little she did know.

  Such as the fact that Phoebe was some sort of superagent, and Itor employed a lot of people like her.

  Like Melanie, whose gift of ice was the opposite of Phoebe’s fiery touch. But since Mel had refused to use her ability to hurt people—even after being tortured—Itor considered her useless.

  Assholes.

  Melanie might be useless, but she wasn’t helpless. Eight months ago, she’d encountered Itor’s enemies—and what was that saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?

  Since then, Mel had spent every spare moment trying to find the people she’d seen in the jungle, had questioned Phoebe about them, had scoured her memories raw in an effort to glean any information about the group of individuals who might be able to help lift her out of this hellish existence. So far, she had very little to go on, but she wasn’t giving up.

  The cellphone rang again, and Mel hurried to the bedroom. The text message was in code, as usual, so she had no freaking clue what it said. If it had been important, there would have been nothing on the screen but an exclamation point—which meant that Melanie had best retreat into the darkness of her mind and force Phoebe out.

  Thank God that wasn’t the case this time. She’d just drained their abilities, and she needed to charge. Quickly. Before Phoebe took over and discovered that she couldn’t use her gift.

  The problem was that charging up meant finding a man, and not only was Melanie not practiced in that particular skill, but she wasn’t allowed to leave the building. Phoebe had made some very dangerous enemies a couple of weeks ago when an arms deal went bad, and apparently the small but deadly organization was hunting her.

  A knock at the door made her jump, which was silly. The building was owned by Itor, was supersecure, and when she glanced at the clock, she realized it was time for the mail, and she was expecting a new textbook.

  Smiling, she opened the door … and froze. The person on the other side wasn’t an Itor guard delivering packages.

  It was the very man she’d been looking for. The man who, eight months ago, had watched his buddy go up in flames, thanks to Phoebe. The man who had promised to kill her the next time they met.

  She might have wanted to find him, but not like this, and a scream welled in her throat even as she tried to slam the door shut. But he was fast, and he moved inside with the speed of a striking snake, pinning her to the wall with his big body while fisting her hair in one hand and pressing the tip of a knife into the soft spot beneath her chin with the other. He kicked the door closed, and now she was completely, utterly helpless.

  “So, Phoebe,” he said in a smooth, calm voice that was far more frightening than if he’d yelled. “Wish I could say it was nice seeing you again. You should know that if you try to use your fire or ice, you’ll end up with a blade in your brain. Got it?”

  Oh, God. Wanting to find this man or the people he worked for was a huge mistake. Now she wanted to retreat, to let Phoebe out to handle this. Even without her gift, Phoebe was lethal—Mel had seen videos of her sister fighting like some sort of martial arts master. This was the kind of thing Phoebe lived for.

  But she would be beyond pissed that Mel had drained the battery, and the last time that had happened … Mel shuddered.

  No, somehow, she had to handle this herself.

  “Well?” He pressed the knife, which had to be of a nonmetal construction to pass through the building’s metal detectors, into her skin a little harder. “Are we clear on this?”

  “Yes,” she rasped. “Please … I’m not … I’m not Phoebe.”

  His eyes, hypnotic, swirling with sparks of anger, narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “M-Melanie. Phoebe is—” She swallowed drily, hoping he’d buy what was sort of a lie. “Phoebe is my twin sister. She’s not here. She’s at the market. She’ll be home soon.”

  He smiled, his full lips peeling back from straight, white teeth, and wow, if he wasn’t the scariest man she’d ever seen—outside of her father anyway—she’d have been seriously attracted to him. “See, the thing is, I know she’s not at the market. I know she’s you.”

  “We’re identical twins—”

  “You’re the same person. Split personality.” He tugged on her hair as he moved in even closer, so the entire hard length of his body was pressed against hers. He was bigger, stronger, and if that was the point he was trying to make, he’d succeeded. “So if you aren’t Phoebe, why don’t you tell me who you are at the moment.”

  Oh, crap. Very few people knew what she was, even inside Itor. Granted, this guy was wrong, but he was on the right track. This wasn’t a case of multiple personality syndrome. Broken down into the most simple of concepts, this was a case of one egg splitting into two and then being shoved together again in a lab. Melanie and Phoebe really were two very different people fighting for control of the same body.

  And unfortunately, Phoebe was a lot stronger, and had been for years.

  “I told you, I’m Melanie,” she insisted. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I remember some.” She jerked her head to the side in a futile attempt to break his hold. “But I’d remember a lot better if you took away the knife.”

  “Nice try,” he said.

  “You can’t expect me to chat while I’m worried about bleeding out.”

  One corner of his mouth tipped up in amusement, which pissed her off, because bleeding out wasn’t on her list of funny topics. “And you can’t expect me to hand over the advantage so you can freeze me to death.”

  He shifted, and … good God, did he actually have an erection? She squirmed, and yes, there was a definite hard bulge in the front of his pants that was pressing into her belly. How nice that the thought of killing her turned him on.

  “I can’t freeze you to death.” She glared at him. “I’m out of power. Used it all up a
little while ago, and it takes several hours to recharge.” Took sex to recharge too, but he didn’t need to know that.

  One blond eyebrow cocked up. “Now, why don’t I believe you?”

  She exhaled slowly and tried to keep her temper in check. “Dunno. Maybe because you’re an asshole?” So much for the temper.

  He snorted. “Like I haven’t heard that before.”

  “No doubt you have.” She swallowed, winced at the bite of the blade in her skin. “Look, if I could turn you into an ice cube, I’d have done it by now, knife or no knife. So tell me who you are, and let me go.”

  There was a long, tense silence, and then he backed off, but he stood a few feet away, coiled like a spring, and she had the feeling he was ready to put her down if she so much as flinched.

  “Name’s Stryker. And I’m guessing you remember me.”

  “You tried to kill me in some godforsaken jungle. You think I’d forget that?” She raised her chin and met his unnerving gaze head-on. “Are you here to finish the job?”

  He considered her question for a long time, which did nothing for her nerves. Finally, he moved toward her. Stalking her.

  A fresh jolt of fear spiked through her as she retreated. His prowling gait backed her all the way into the kitchen, where she bumped up against the counter.

  “Am I here to kill you?” he asked softly, in a voice that filled her with dread. “Honestly? Yes.”

  A ball of terror dropped into the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even move as he inched closer. He could have been a little less honest.

  “But I’d really rather kill fire-bitch, so get her for me.”

  Okay. Yes, she needed to get Phoebe. This was so beyond Melanie’s ability to handle. Concentrating, she called out to Phoebe in her mind. No response, as expected. For the first couple of hours after Melanie woke up, Phoebe was often next to impossible to summon.

  Please, Phoebe, wake up! Still nothing. Dammit!

  “Well?” Stryker’s voice was gravelly with impatience, and Melanie began to sweat.

  “I can’t reach her.”

  “Too bad for you, then.” The hand holding the wicked-looking knife came up, level with her heart, only a foot away. “Did you enjoy it?” he growled. “Did you like seeing my friend burn?”

  Hurt and murder swirled in Stryker’s eyes, and she knew her life could very well end in about five seconds.

  “I’m sorry … I didn’t do it … it was horrible.” Stinging tears welled up, but they didn’t drown out the visions of that man dying the way he had.

  “You’re sorry.” He bared his teeth and stepped closer, pressing the tip of the knife into her breastbone. “Well, your sorry means jack shit.”

  She couldn’t help it. She trembled so hard that the blade vibrated, punctured the fabric of her robe, and bit into her skin. His raw curse blistered the air, and he jerked the knife away.

  “I’m not doing this with you,” he snapped. “Until Phoebe grows a pair and decides to show her psychotic face, you’re coming with me.”

  Panic wrapped around Mel, squeezing until her breath was coming in shallow pants. She wasn’t stupid; she might not be safe right this minute, but at least she was in an apartment she knew, in a building owned by Itor. If she left with him, her chances for survival plummeted. “I can’t. I can’t leave. Phoebe will be mad. I have laundry to do, and I have to eat, and …” God, she was babbling, but at this point, she didn’t care.

  Stryker looked at her like she was nuts. “Phoebe will be fine.” He reached for her, but she wheeled away, knocking dishes off the counter.

  He cornered her near the pantry, and terror ripped through her. “Please don’t. Please don’t make me go. I can help you—”

  “This isn’t up for debate, and begging has no effect on me.”

  Her gaze darted around the kitchen. A weapon. She needed a weapon. Anything. But there was nothing. He was going to take her, and she was going to die. Abruptly, defeat closed in on her like a shroud. Years of living only half a life collided with the knowledge that the only glimmer of hope she’d had—finding Itor’s enemies—turned out to be a letdown. Itor’s enemies wanted her dead, and now she could do nothing but pray for mercy, something that had never, ever worked before.

  “The thing with the knife,” she rasped. “In my brain. Would it hurt?”

  “What?” He blinked, clearly thrown by the question. “I guess I could make it hurt. Why?”

  “Would you do it so it won’t?”

  “Look, if you cooperate—”

  “I’m not going to cooperate,” she said. “So just do it. But … I don’t want it to hurt.” She couldn’t believe she was asking her murderer for a favor. She really had lost it.

  Stryker looked completely dumbfounded, but at least he’d lost that homicidal glaze in his eyes. He stared. Scrubbed his hand over his face. Took a step back, even. As if maybe her crazy was contagious. After a long moment, he made the knife disappear into his leather jacket.

  “What’s your game?” he said gruffly. “Phoebe isn’t going to hurt you. I did a little research into your condition, and from what I learned, alters are formed to protect. Not hurt. At least, not hurt each other.”

  Laughing bitterly, she gestured to the fork-impaled fish near the coffeemaker. “That was punishment for leaving her with no coffee. You don’t want to know what she did to my parakeet.”

  “Well, there don’t appear to be any other pets she can kill, so what else can she do to you?”

  “You can’t even begin to imagine.” She wrapped her arms around her body, mainly to hold herself up. “I mean, I give as good as I get, but she has her creepy colleagues on her side.” Mel didn’t have anyone, and hadn’t since her mother died.

  His gaze sharpened. “Her colleagues? You work for Itor too, don’t you?”

  “Only Phoebe works for them,” she said tiredly. “I don’t really know what they do.”

  There was skepticism in his voice when he said, “So you’re saying you have no idea what was going on in the Amazon when you were there?”

  She shook her head. “The last thing I remember before coming to in the jungle was being on a plane with Itor people who wouldn’t say a word to me. And then I was in the jungle and there was that man … and you were trying to kill me.”

  “Yeah, well, your buddy Phoebe and her Itor henchmen were planning to murder three dozen people, all to gain a powerful weapon.” He paused as though expecting her to deny his accusation, but she knew her sister and father well enough to know that what Stryker was saying was no doubt true. When she said nothing, he continued. “Her team managed to slaughter some innocent people as well as kill my friend, and I’m here to make sure Phoebe answers for what she did.” He gestured at her robe. “So get dressed, and come with me.” When she stood there, paralyzed by indecision, he cocked his head, asked her softly, “Why did you ask me for help?”

  Her heart nearly stopped. She’d forgotten how, in her confusion over what had happened in the jungle, her shock at the death and destruction, she’d whispered a terrified “Help me” to Stryker, even though he’d clearly rather have killed her.

  “Because I was afraid.” She’d been desperate, terrified, and grasping at the first glimmer of hope she’d seen in years. Itor’s enemy could help her, right?

  But then reality had set in at the murder in his eyes, and she’d cut her losses and run.

  “Are you afraid now?” His voice was so deceptively quiet.

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said, as he shoved her toward the bedroom. “At least you’re smart. Get dressed.”

  That she was out of options was now obvious. She’d have to go with him and either convince him to help her, or leave their fate to Phoebe. She brushed past him. “Don’t want to kill me while I’m in my pajamas, huh?” Her gallows humor came out in a thin voice that only emphasized the danger of her situation.

  “Behave, and maybe I won’t need to kill you at all. At l
east, not right away.”

  She stumbled to a halt at the bedroom doorway. “What do you mean?”

  “I might have other uses for you,” he said, sounding almost disappointed, as though he really wanted to kill her, but a smarter though less appealing option had come to mind. “Now stop talking and start dressing.”

  His tone said there was no room to argue, and really, when it came right down to it, Stryker couldn’t do anything to her that hadn’t been done before. And if he wanted to kill her, she’d die. If he was some sort of good guy, she’d probably end up in a mental ward somewhere, and Phoebe wouldn’t have the freedom to torment her.

  So … a mental ward or death.

  Yep, things were looking up.

  Melanie was maybe the worst would-be hostage ever—or the smartest. Begging for death was a brilliant move to throw him off track, except Stryker didn’t think she was kidding. At all.

  She appeared genuinely afraid of her alter personality and, having met that Phoebe bitch personally, he could understand.

  The forked fish on the counter confirmed that if what Mel told him about how her alter ego tortured her proved true, she was truly living a horror show existence. Having enemies was one thing, but sharing a body with one … well, he could read the fear wafting off Melanie in waves.

  If she wasn’t totally shitting him. And while he’d listened in on the ACRO scientists discussing multiple personality disorder—though they’d also called it dissociative identity disorder—he still firmly believed that Phoebe and Melanie were both the same person—and they should be punished.

  But he’d get a lot more satisfaction taking it out on that fire-bitch. And the only way to ensure he could take his time and maybe even torture some Itor intel out of terrified Mel before he met Phoebe again was to get her the hell out of here and into the ACRO safe house.