Conception
Sarah McCarty
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Conception
ISBN # 1-4199-0337-3 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Conception Copyright© 2005 Sarah McCarty
Edited by: Pamela Campbell.Cover art by: Syneca.
Electronic book Publication: August 2005
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without writtenpermission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 443103502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or localesis purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Warning:
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Conception has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (Erotic), and X (X-treme).
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
Dedication
For Kelly…the truly innocent one (wink) with a gift for gab and making people feel good about themselves. May your icons always be your favorites and your smile find you at the end of the day.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Barbie: Mattel Inc.
Mack Truck: Mack Trucks, Inc.
Cheerios: General Mills, Inc.
Chapter One
There would be no escape.
The realization slashed through pain, through despair, and most devastatingly through the hope that this was all a horrible nightmare. That she wasn’t suspended above the floor in her kitchen, hanging by her wrists, blood dripping from her back onto the old wooden planks below. That her grandfather wasn’t the one who’d ordered the whipping that was draining the life from her body. That it wasn’t her loving uncle wielding the whip. That her whole world hadn’t disappeared because she’d dared to fall in love.
Her uncle grunted, the whip whistled and the now familiar agony exploded throughout her body, racing faster than she could gather her determination to endure.
She screamed. Again.
“Where is he?”
The question snapped out with the force of a blow, striking deep into her fear. She dug her nails into her palms as agony rolled through her body. Oh, God! It hurt so badly! She couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take any more. She needed something to hold on to. Something to get her through. She couldn’t fail Dusan again. She wouldn’t.
Swirls of mist seeped into her consciousness, delicate tendrils wafting up through the red haze shrouding her mind’s eye, blurring the edges of her vision. The mist built and grew into a fog, and as it did, the agony lessened.
Was she losing her mind? The fog thickened, beckoned, offering a miracle to a nonbeliever. The whip dragged across the floor, the sound seeming to come from far away as reality tucked behind the thick fog. Without further resistance, she allowed her mind to sink into the comforting haze, welcoming the oblivion it promised.
Ice-cold water hit her face with the force of shattering icicles, yanking her back into the horror. Fingers sank into her hair, jerking her chin off her chest. “Damn it, girl! Just tell us where he is and we can stop all this.”
She opened her eyes. Her grandfather’s face swam in and out of focus, distorted beyond recognition by his rage and the knowledge that she’d betrayed him. He shook her and the room jerked out of focus. She didn’t fight his manipulation of her head, accepting his dominance over her body.
“Answer me!”
She summoned the remnants of her strength and remained mute. They couldn’t make her do anything anymore. Least of all make her reveal where Dusan was. Not when it was her fault he’d been captured. Not when his only hope for escape was her silence.
Retaliation was swift. The blow jerked her body high in the chains. Blood filled her throat and the world swirled red and black.
“Jesus, Clay. Ease off.” Her uncle’s shout was a dim echo of her own silent plea. “If you kill her we’ll never find the bastard.”
“We’ll find him.” The conviction in the statement jarred with the rattle of the chains. “I’ve waited too long, worked too hard for this to fall apart now.”
“Maybe another dose of the drug?”
“The drug isn’t working,” her grandfather retorted.
“How the hell can it not be working?”
“I don’t goddamn well know, but any more and she’ll die.” Anger and disgust colored the outburst. Metal rattled against metal. The sound was just as discordant as the truth her grandfather spat out. “But she won’t die before she tells us where she put that damn vamp.”
Water hit the bottom of the bucket in a roar of sound that masked Eden’s soft gasp. He meant it. Her grandfather really didn’t care if she lived or died. Somewhere inside her the scream started, swelling, pushing against her throat, the last of her innocence wailing to be heard. She bit the inside of her lip, the stab of pain snapping her back into control. No matter what her grandfather did to her, revealed to her, she couldn’t lose it now. She had to hold on a little longer.
“How badly do we still need the vamp?” her uncle asked.
“Without him, we’re nowhere.”
“We’ve got his DNA.”
“We need him.”
“I thought we needed her, too.”
They wanted her? Why?
“We do, but if I have to sacrifice her, I will.”
“And what will we do then?”
Eden knew the answer before her grandfather said it.
“Go to Plan B.”
Her grandfather always had Plan B. Plumbing clunked a protest as the water was turned off.
“Did you stop to think that maybe she doesn’t know where the vamp is?” her uncle asked, disgust putting an edge on the question.
Eden didn’t fool herself that the disgust came from concern for her welfare. No, Uncle Henry was disgusted because her grandfather had left him out of the loop. Something he should be used to by now. No one, not even her, had ever been able to gain Clay Lavery’s trust or approval. The nearest she’d ever come was when she’d dated Deuce. And now she knew why. Somehow, her grandfather had known what he was, had predicted his interest in her, and had used her to lure him into a trap. She’d just been the lovesick fool who thought it had all been real. The start of a new beginning. Instead, she’d dragged the only person who’d ever loved her for herself into a deathtrap.
“She’s the only one who had access to his cell,” her grandfather snapped.
“He could have escaped.”
“Not without help. As long as he’s on that drug he can’t move, twitch or summon help.”
“Theoretically.”
There was a disbelieving snort from
her grandfather and the sound of the metal bucket scraping the counter. “If the creature could have moved, he never would have allowed the sampling.” Heavy footsteps approached, slightly uneven in rhythm. “Therefore, if he’s been moved, she’s the one who moved him.”
Viciously cold water hit her face and chest again, filling her nose and mouth. Eden couldn’t prevent the rasping cough that jerked her body. She couldn’t preserve the illusion of unconsciousness. Once again, her head was hauled up. “Isn’t that right, Ladybug?”
She said nothing, refusing to respond to the harsh parody of the familiar endearment. Her grandfather let her head drop. In her mind, the cloud appeared again, hovering just past her reach. Waiting. For what? If the damn thing was going to show up, it should sure as shit do its job.
“Maybe we’d better lay off for a while,” she heard Uncle Henry offer cautiously. Uncle Henry was a brilliant man, but he lacked her grandfather’s hard edges.
Oh, please, she prayed, straining for the cloud, lay off for a while. She wasn’t proud. She’d take whatever respite she could get.
“There’s no time.” The metal bucket thudded to the floor. “He’s already an hour late for his injection. In another two, he’ll be free of the drug entirely.”
“Shit!” Uncle Henry gasped, horror lacing his tone. “It’ll be full dark in two hours!”
“Exactly.” Two more steps and she heard the slither of leather sliding off wood. The shift of air across her face, the flicker of interrupted light against her closed eyelids, indicated the gesture she couldn’t see. “So stop mollycoddling the traitorous bitch and let’s get this over with.”
Two hours. She just had to hold on for two more hours. She could do it. What was two hours when it meant Deuce’s life? Eden fought back the writhing fear as she heard the rasp of the whip dragging across the floor. Two hours was just one-hundred-twenty minutes. Seventy-two-hundred seconds. That wasn’t so long. She’d heard of POWs who’d hung on for twenty years. Surely, she could hold out for two hours. She owed Deuce that much.
The whip snapped on the backswing. Her gasp was instinctive. Unpreventable. She hated herself for the fear. The weakness. The desperate prayer for something to save her. But nothing could save her now. There was no turning back. Even if she told them where he was, it wouldn’t save her. She’d betrayed her grandfather. He’d never suffer her to live. But hanging on could save Dusan. That’s where she needed to hold her focus.
Eden braced herself, knowing it was pointless. There was no preparing for the agony of the lash cutting through flesh and muscle, but a small kernel of stubbornness demanded she try. She stiffened in anticipation as the lash whistled its approach. The cloud swelled and gathered. As if straining against an invisible wall, it hovered and bulged and then exploded forward. She threw herself into it, hoping against hope it wasn’t a mirage, imagining that it came from Deuce, needing for the moment the illusion that he cared for her and his attention hadn’t been part of some sick war he and her grandfather fought. The wet slap of the lash hitting flesh reverberated around her. Her body jerked, the chains rattled, but no corresponding burst of agony detonated in her flesh. It was as if she floated in a protective space where nothing could touch her.
She huddled her spirit deeper into the cloud. She panted, breathing in the acrid odor of her own sweat, tinted with the metallic scent of blood. She had her miracle. Now, if the powers-that-be were willing, she just needed one more. Just one.
It came in the form of a horrendous crash and a rapid succession of small explosions.
Gunfire!
The cloud disappeared in a puff. Eden raised her head and forced her swollen eyes to slit open. She was just in time to see her grandfather and uncle slip through the wine cellar door. Two seconds later, the room filled with huge, broad-shouldered, khaki-clad strangers. One of whom bumped her. She couldn’t suppress her gasp as she swayed.
“Oh God!” That hurt. Her voice was a slight gasp of air, barely sound, but it was enough to immediately make her the focus of a pair of golden eyes.
“Shit.”
She must look as good as she felt.
The hard-faced man spoke into the mike on his shoulder. “We’ve got life here.”
She waited for the man to help her down. Shoot the chains. Pick the lock. Any number of the things she’d seen on TV. Instead, he grasped her chin in his gloved fingers and tilted her gaze to meet his. “Where is he?”
Oh Lord. Not another one. If she’d had the strength, she would have jerked her chin away. Instead, she settled on the tried and true method of resistance. She sought her cloud.
It failed to come. Violence hummed beneath the skin of the golden man holding her. His grip on her chin tightened. His strange gold eyes narrowed. “I’m only going to ask you one more time, lady. Where is he?”
Or he’d do what? Beat her? She closed her eyes and didn’t dignify his threat with a response.
“Nick,” the golden man barked. “Can you smell him?”
“Hell, there’s so much blood here, I’d be lucky to pick out anything but her.”
“Try.”
“It’d be easier if the Chosen weren’t so elusive.”
“It’d be easier if the humans would just leave us alone.”
“No argument there.”
Humans? Did that mean the man holding her wasn’t human?
Eden forced her eyes open again. Only one would open enough to see through clearly. The man wasn’t looking at her. He held her chin almost absentmindedly, his attention on a dark-haired man across the room. He certainly looked human, but there was a certain cast to his profile, the way his hair swept off his forehead that lent him an otherworldly aura. Was it possible?
“Who are you?” The clear demand she meant to speak came out as a hoarse, dried-up croak of sound.
The golden man turned back to her. “I’m the man looking for Deuce.”
“Why?”
His right eyebrow went up. “Because his brother asked me to.”
“You’re not human.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Something you said.”
He exchanged a look with the others in the room. With a curt “Secure the area” he turned back to her. His demeanor was noticeably softer. His grip on her chin gentled.
“Deuce’s family is very worried about him.”
He was going to have to do better than that. “What are you?”
“What do you think I am?”
Her left eye throbbed and her back burned. She was dangerously close to losing consciousness, and he wanted to play games? Was she cursed? “Are you one of them?”
His gaze sharpened. “I’m one of the Lyons’. Dak Lyons, to be precise.”
“You’re on his list,” she breathed, weighing the information and what it might mean.
“Whose list?”
“My grandfather’s.”
She ignored his small start at that piece of information. It didn’t necessarily follow that just because Dak Lyons was on the same list as Deuce that he was a friend, but it was the only hedge she had in what was a pretty dismal situation. Bottom line, trusting Dak Lyons was the only chance Deuce had.
“You’ve got to get him out of here,” she told him.
“Where is he?”
She stared into his golden eyes for a minute, looking for something, anything that would tell her if she was doing the right thing. There was nothing for her to see, however, except the level assessment he was making of her in return.
Across the room, the little green light on the alarm panel started to flash. Oh God, they were out of time. “Under the floor.”
“Where?”
She closed her eyes on a brief prayer and said, “Under my feet.”
All eyes fell to the blood-spattered wood.
“Hell. Get a crowbar over here!” She sensed, more than saw, movement at the edge of the room.
“You’ve got to hurry,” she whispered. “He activated the defenses.”<
br />
Dak whipped around. “Who did?”
“My grandfather. He’s always been worried about someone stealing his research.”
Dak’s lips twisted, derision clearly evident. “I’ll just bet.”
Two of the heavily armed, heavily muscled men made short work of the nails she’d pounded so deep to keep Deuce safe. Nails squealed as they were dragged free, wood groaned and thud after thud, two beats slower than her heart, built into a clatter as the floorboards were tossed aside. No one made a move toward her. They weren’t even going to get her down, Eden realized. Not until they were sure. And maybe not even then. She was the granddaughter of the head of the Coalition. She was the enemy. Though she’d been late coming to that understanding, she had it now. The minutes stretched like hours as the men worked beneath her. Then with a “Got him”, the agony of wondering if she’d done the right thing was over.
“Jeez, Deuce,” a big man with a bandanna tied around his head asked, no small amount of horror in his voice, “what the hell did they do to you?”
That horror in his voice dug deeply into her fear. Had she been too late? Had something happened while he was down there? “Is he all right?”
No one spared her a glance, let alone an answer.
A hammer went flying past her field of vision before landing with a bang in the pile of discarded floorboards. “He’s not moving, Dak.”
Dak turned her face to his. “Why isn’t he moving?”
“It’s a drug,” she whispered. “He can’t move or talk. It’ll wear off in a couple hours, but you’ve got to get him out of here now.”
Not a flicker of expression touched his face. “Nick, bring the body bag.”
“He’s not dead!” she gasped, struggling in a futile effort to see for herself. He couldn’t be dead. All she got a glimpse of was her chest and a set of wide male shoulders.
Dak’s hands on her hips put paid to her efforts to see. His “He needs protection from the light” was almost gentle. There was a faint stiffening in his arms as he stepped aside for the men to work. He took a breath, paused, and lifted her weight off her arms. “You’re hurting yourself.”
Conception Page 1
