Blue

by Maddie James

  Before...

  Ahead. Overpass. Far ahead. Could barely see, but yes, like in her vision. Could McCrae see? She couldn't bet on it. She saw things others didn't.

  Men. With high-powered laser rifles that could cut an elephant in two at 700 yards.

  Leaning forward, she slapped at his chest to gain his attention. Pointed ahead at the overpass, far in the distance.

  "There!"

  Damn it. Their helmets had radios. Why didn't they work?

  "Hold on!” He yelled the words over his shoulder and it was then she knew that he understood.

  Deep shit.

  McCrae let off the throttle and in a split second had jerked the bike off the pavement, struggling to keep it upright. They moved roughly off into the tall grass at the side of the road and jumped a small drainage ditch. Cyan held on tight. McCrae concentrated only on his task. She wondered where the bad guys were.

  Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes, trying to cull out the evil vibes from the simply scary ones. Tried to breathe deeply and slowly and methodically so she could call up the vision. Where were they? The men. Were they coming?

  There. She could see them. In her sight. Running. Along the side of the road. Weapons charged, poised, raised....

  Too close.

  Zingpht! A beam of fire-laser split the sky beside them and skidded off into the road.

  Zingpht! Zingpht!

  Closer.

  McCrae revved the bike's engine, threw up sod behind them, and headed straight into the field ahead.

  "Duck!"

  Shades of green flashed by Cyan's face. She burrowed into his back as they moved deeper and deeper into the field. The blades of greenery whipped around them, cutting her forearms. His. She could see wind trails of blood working up his forearms. And all at once, Cyan sensed, knew, what was going to happen next.

  Corn. They were in a cornfield.

  Nauseous, she tried to just keep herself on the back of the bike, looking straight ahead, no clue where they were headed, not able to see anything but green. McCrae couldn't see, either, she was sure, but he kept plowing ahead through the damned green curtain.

  Some sort of bird, a big bird, with flapping wings and a screaming squawk shot up on front of them. The bike skidded. McCrae fought for control. Finally, it spun out sideways and he laid the bike over ... sliding ... taking them with it. The tires plowed a deep rut in the soft earth and Cyan felt herself tumbling over and over to a rolling stop. She lost her helmet somewhere in the process.

  McCrae reached for her hand. Pulled her up. Further into the field. Running, dragging her along behind him.

  The shouts behind them grew louder. Closer.

  Green whips bit at her. Sliced.

  Fuck. Last night's vision flashed through her head.

  "Don't leave me!” she shouted at his back, begging. Desperate.

  He gripped her hand tighter and tugged her along.

  Something exploded beside them and suddenly, McCrae was gone, flipped over into the next row of tall slender stalks, the rows too thick to see through. Shit! Had they blown him up? Cyan hit the ground, her eyes tearing, dirt raining down around her, spitting corn dust. Smokey, dusty, billowing cloud surrounded her.

  "McCrae!"

  Get up. Get up!

  Move, Cyan. They are close. Tossing hand bombs. Something.

  They want you. You are who they are after.

  McCrae can take care of himself, if he's not dead.

  Move!

  She jumped up about the time they burst through the small clearing made by their motorcycle slide. A flash of metal sliced through first. The machete. Three of them. Black hoods. Only their eyes peeking through.

  Hands. White. Caucasian.

  This was the thing she'd been running from since childhood. This, was her father's greatest fear. She knew the story, oh so well. How her father had lost her mother when Cyan was only three. Lost her to men in black hoods who ransacked their home, beat their father to a pulp, raped her mother in front of him, and then took off with her.

  Gone.

  Dead or alive, no one knew.

  Cyan never saw her again. She'd been away, hidden away at Betatakin, because the threats had been clear. Her parents had decided to stay, finish up some of their work in the lab, before joining her. She supposed they never thought anyone would ever carry out the threats—even in this day and age. She supposed they really thought they were safe in their makeshift fortress.

  She was never going to make it to Betatakin. Not now. Memories lashed through her mind at the thought. Of how safe she'd felt there, especially after her father had joined her, even though he was bent and broken at first, mentally and physically. Betatakin had been their safe haven for a few years. She'd hoped it would be again.

  Not likely.

  The lead man in the pack approached her. Too close. His eyes penetrating. The machete aimed at her heart.

  Daddy? Please be with me.

  The thick-bladed knife, cold and impersonal, lifted her chin. The hard steel bit into her neck and she raised her chin as far as she could away from it, then backed up into an ogre of a man standing behind her. He grasped her biceps from behind and held her immobile.

  Shock must be setting in, she thought. No power to move. Jelly legs. The only thing she registered was a great urge to vomit, her stomach wanting to vault at the touch of the man behind her, and the thick blade of the knife piercing her neck.

  "Long time waiting for this, Ms. Virgin.” Machete Guy moved closer. The whites of his eyes peered out from behind that damned hood.

  "Don't come any closer, you goddamned son-of-a-bitch."

  The man chuckled and lifted her chin up further with the sharp edge of the knife.

  "I'm warning you,” she bit off, keeping her gaze pinned to his eyes. “I can't be responsible for what happens if you—"

  Suddenly he jerked the machete away and nailed it straight into the ground at her feet. She was afraid to look down. Did she still have toes? But she couldn't anyway because the man had replaced the knife with the grip of his fingers. Firmly, possessively, he grasped her chin and angled her face toward his with a jerk.

  "Your eyes."

  A spray of spit showered her face.

  "My eyes?” she returned coyly. “What about them?"

  "Take them out."

  Cyan laughed. “Sorry, they're attached. And I'm quite fond of them."

  With a growl he released her and picked up the machete again. Cyan stumbled back a bit but the ogre guy was still there. Solid. The knife in Machete Guy's hand again, he now pushed the tip of it into the corner of her right eye. Damn it felt like he was drawing blood. The afternoon sun glinted off the polished steel, nearly blinding her.

  "Take them out! Take out whatever it is covering your eyes, or I'll pluck them out of your head myself. I want to see those baby blues...."

  "Now!"

  His bark startled her and she jumped. Scared as hell, but she had to preserve some measure of coolness here. Right?

  She swallowed.

  "All right. But back off a bit? I need a little space."

  Balls. Some days she had them.

  "And get this ogre behind me to let go of my arms, okay?"

  He backed off. Barely. And the ogre released her.

  Cyan bent her head forward slightly, then a little more, then brought her hands up to her eyes, her curtain of Navajo bronze providing a bit of privacy. She popped the left brown contact out of her eye and without looking up, handed it to him.

  "Yessssss...” he hissed. “The other one."

  She popped that one out, too, and offered it to him in the palm of her hand.

  As he reached for it, she turned her hand over and dropped it to the ground. On pure instinct, and that was what she was hoping for, the idiot bent over to retrieve it. Speed, she knew, was going to be critical in the next few seconds. She moved in quick as a cat on hot tin and kneed him in the face with a satisfying pop. She hoped to hell she'd bro
ken his nose. The surprise impact stunned the man momentarily and he faltered back just long enough for her to see the blood gurgling from his face, and then twirled and elbowed the ogre behind her. Then instantly, with the heel of her boot, she stomped down his shin and ground her heel into the top of his foot.

  She guessed those self-defense classes her father had insisted on came in handy after all.

  He yelped and leaped for her at the same time. She sidestepped but quickly realized she was out of moves and out numbered. Machete Guy had picked up the blade again and was angrily heading for her. Smiling. The third guy hadn't moved an inch this whole time. Just watched. But he was moving in too, with a nasty wicked smirk on his face

  "Cyan!"

  McCrae's voice tore through the charged atmosphere from behind them, bringing a brief pause to everything. Everything, that is, but him.

  He spun into their circle like a Kansas tornado, landed behind Machete Guy and kick-punched him in the kidneys. Cyan leaped to the side as both knife and man flew forward. The third guy, the standoffish voyeur in this matter up until now, lit into McCrae and dropped him to the ground. They wrestled. Machete Guy was up. Cyan saw him tackle the two on the ground. The knife slid to the side.

  She raced for it. As her fingers reach out to snatch it up, she was pummeled from the side and rolled into the edge of the cornrow. The knife skidded off, far from her reach.

  The ogre was now on top of her.

  "McCrae!"

  But all she could hear were grunts and moans and thuds and guttural sounds.

  Trust him.

  The ogre worked frantically. Obviously realizing this was his chance. To hell with his comrades, he was going to get his piece of priceless ass. Clutching, clawing at her clothing. Cyan punched him in the nose with the palm of her hand and pulled off that damn hood.

  He pinned her arms to the ground on either side of her, leaned closer.

  "Get a good look at my face, sweetie,” he snarled. “Cause my face is one you ain't never gonna forget."

  She did take a good look. Because when the time came, she wanted to make damned sure she could identify him.

  "You fucking bastard."

  "You betcha sweet ass."

  Her chest heaving, she held that gaze for a few seconds longer, then spat in it with all she could muster. Where the hell was McCrae?

  Trust him.

  "Goddamned fucking little whore!” His hand went up ... Shit. I've done it now. ... and came down with a jolt against the side of her face, knocking her head sideways. Her ears rang, pain lanced through her jaw, and her senses were knocked off kilter.

  She tried to draw cleansing breath. It came out coarse, choppy. Ragged. Tried to get control. So ... hard.

  The bastard took advantage of the situation. His hands clawed, ripped at her pants, pulled and tugged while he straddled her. Cyan was damned near useless. McCrae? She'd all but given up on him. Damn, he could be dead already. Two on one. Could he handle...?

  Once he'd gotten her pants down far enough, the ogre started fumbling with his own zipper. When Cyan saw the red ugly cock that came protruding out his fly, she thought she would black out.

  Maybe it was better that way.

  He grinned. Positioned himself over her. Forced her legs apart. More.

  "Remember this always, honey,” he said sweetly, looking up into her face and grinning. “Everyone always remembers their first time."

  Cyan turned her head away.

  "Look at me, goddamn it!” He reached up and clasped her chin, jerking her face back to look at his.

  "You cock-sucking, motherfuck—"

  She didn't get the words out. Sun glinting off metal caught her eye and in the next instant, the man who was forcing her to look into his face, violating her, getting ready to plunge his god-awful cock into her, suddenly didn't have a head. The machete swept from Cyan's right to left in one fell swoop and the bastard's head went sailing into the next row of corn.

  No, she would never forget that last look on his face.

  His body slumped over her.

  "Sonofabitch! Get him off!” She screamed and rolled and frantically pushed at the headless corpse.

  McCrae was next to her in an instant, pulling her away. Up. Into his arms. She clung to him chattering, shivering, sobbing as he pulled and straightened her clothes around her. Then he encircled her, held her, her face buried in his chest.

  Her legs buckled and he lifted her securely into his arms.

  "Don't look,” he told her. “Don't look at anything. Let's just get the hell out of here."

  Trust him.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Five

  Devin peered cautiously into the barn. The door was narrowly propped open. It was early evening and his eyes were playing tricks on him, moving from sunlight to darkness. Instinct told him that no one was in there. But he couldn't be sure. Didn't want to risk it. Pondered whether he should put Cyan down and make sure it was safe.

  "No one in there."

  Cyan's sweet voice came on a whisper. He'd thought she was asleep. He'd carried her for a couple of miles, and the only way he'd pulled that off was sheer determination not to let her down ... let her father down. The pain in his ribs was excruciating and the hunk of flesh that had been taken out of his thigh wasn't much better. Not to mention the fact that he was physically battered and drained.

  Killing three men in two minutes flat did that to you.

  "You're sure?” His voice was barely a whisper.

  He felt her nod against his chest. “It's okay. And you need to put me down."

  "You okay?” Was she hurt?

  "Better. But you're not. Go inside. No one there."

  He did and stood a few feet inside the old structure, letting his eyes adjust to the dim recesses. Slowly, he scanned the room and noticed first, and most importantly, that there was only one door in—and out. Good. He moved to the back of the small barn, located an old stall in the corner that surprisingly smelled of old straw. At least it wasn't moldy. He had no idea where the horse was. Thankful, however, that he'd left a soft bed behind.

  Gently, he laid Cyan down and then slowly straightened. She took a good look at him, probably for the first time since their escape.

  Her eyes were wide. “You're hurt."

  He nodded. “Yes."

  She reached up. “Let me—"

  Devin took a step back. “No. Later. Right now I need to check some things out. You stay put. You're safe. I need to look outside, see if I can find water, scope out the surroundings.” I won't rest until I do. And I need rest.

  She didn't argue and for that he was thankful. He took two painful steps backward, then three, her gaze locked with his until he turned.

  Painful. Yes. The machete had dug deep into his leg and his ribs were on fire.

  But even more painful was the dull pain in his heart. For Cyan. For what he'd witnessed, for what she'd just been through.

  For the life she was living.

  And for the fact that he knew he could never have her.

  * * * *

  Cyan held Devin McCrae's gaze for as long as she could. She didn't want him to go, to leave her. She feared a panic attack. Feared he wouldn't come back. But she had to trust him.

  Had to.

  Trust him.

  Her father's words. His last. They'd rolled through her mind throughout the terrifying scene hours ago.

  Deep breaths, Cyan. Inhale. Slowly. Exhale. Long and deep.

  She tried to sit up as straight as she could in the straw bed, in meditation stance, and breathe.

  In. Out. Eyes closed. Focus. One thing. Shallow breaths now. Calm. Calm.

  Silence.

  Devin. His face came to her and suddenly he wasn't McCrae anymore, he was Devin. With her mind's eyes she traced his features, his chocolate skin, short dark hair, the tattoo on his left shoulder, the one she'd never quite seen all of. Black ink against deep brown skin. Mulatto. Yes, she'd grown up only with h
er parents, who were both Caucasian, and their few bi-racial friends and bodyguards who were all mixed. Bi-racial. Tri-racial. Quads. Beyond that, it was simply Mulatto.

  She wondered what dominant ethnicities Devin could claim. Hispanic, she suspected, but strong African American features, too. Something else. Whatever, it mattered not to her. For today, he was her savior.

  Odd.

  The man who had taken her father's life; the same man who today had saved hers.

  Karma?

  It became very clear to her then that she could trust him. Had to. There was no one else to turn to. He truly was hell-bent on protecting her. And the woman in her was starved for a strong protector right now.

  But the Alpha in her was starved for something else. Control. A solution to a problem. An itch that needed scratched. A way to release herself from this nightmare.

  Perhaps. In time.

  * * * *

  Devin primed the water pump outside the barn and with all his gumption, pumped the old lever up and down. It creaked and crackled, rust and paint chips flying from the old metal. Good. Not used a lot. Finally, the water spewed in spurts and fits, brown at first, then ran clear. He drank from it, splashed it over his body, his head, and raked the cool wetness through his hair.

  Thank God.

  He wanted the blood of those bastards off of him. And he needed to tend to his wounds, as well.

  Crouching beneath the spigot then, he let the stream play over his head, down his back, cascade over him. He pulled off his wet T-shirt and tossed it over the handle to drain. He ran his hands over his chest, ribs. Damn, but his sides throbbed. His ribs were badly bruised, he was sure. Hoped to hell one wasn't broken. Those guys didn't pull any punches. But they were dead. And he was alive.

  Thank God.

  He'd saved Cyan.

  He jerked up with a shake of his head, random sprays of water sluicing down his back, and noticed his hands were shaking. Fatigue, probably. But something else. He looked around him, warily. They were in a clearing, he could tell, and even though dusk was closing in, he could make out a house about a half mile away. Flat land. You could see for miles. Right out in the middle of nothing. Right out in the open.

  He didn't like it. But not much he could do about it at the moment.