The sentry’s change in breathing warned her. She collapsed to the floor, sticking the keys in her pocket, and curling into a fetal ball. Maybe if she played possum, he would go back to sleep? No such luck. The door opened. She blinked and sat up. Lazarus held a camp lantern high. An ominous reek of lust accompanied his spiky unwashed scent.
“Awake?” he leered. Hot eyes ran over her body. He licked his lips. This sharp was primed for violent sex. Until she figured out a strategy, lying still seemed best.
Lazarus was dressed in biker gear complete with a steel-studded leather jacket and boots, and a shaved head. In her admittedly limited experience, bikers were either hard fat or lean and muscular. Lazarus was neither. He was a death’s head on a stick, with sunken cheeks and eyes, rotting teeth, and raw, flaming acne. The half inch of patchy stubble on his jaw didn’t improve his appearance.
His hands and skull had been decorated with the sort of poorly executed and all-black tattoos that indicated prison ink. She didn’t want to rush to judgment, but somewhere a penitentiary needed to rethink its parole program, and space for another junkie had definitely opened up in some back alley, because like the Bieber twins, old Laz was a methhead.
He probably didn’t have a better nature, but she decided to appeal to it anyway. “Water,” she croaked. She was thirsty as well as hungry. “And I need the bathroom.”
As she had hoped, her request distracted him. A little. “I suppose I could take you to the john,” he crooned. “And then you and me can have ourselves some fun.” His hot eyes burned. Filthy hands reached for her.
CHAPTER 46
Neil~
This was a classic cut-and-run operation. Go in, get the intel, and get the hell out before someone reports a dragon in the sky. No stunts. No heroics. Packard and Merritt hadn’t wanted Neil to take the risk of aerial reconnaissance, but the hawks had proved unable to penetrate the acrid mist that clung so ferociously to Gannet Isle.
He was hanging low, staying as close to the ocean as was compatible with not being seen from the eight motorboats moored offshore just out of range of the fog. The hawks had reported on those small craft. All undersized for staying on the water overnight.
Each was crewed by only two men, who were comprehensively bored and disgruntled and spent their time grousing. They had binoculars but seldom used them. Their fishing lines never twitched, and they never checked them. More importantly, they never altered their position on the water and they communicated solely and infrequently by text.
The team had a solid plan in place to deal with those low-rent urban heavies. Neil was seeking data for the rescue party. The signal from Blythe’s ring had been weak all day and into the evening, before strengthening. The GPS signal had also remained stationary. If she was still alive, likely his little mate was hurt or doped to the gills.
He stuffed the thought of Blythe’s peril down deep and focused on his mission. He was trying hard to act cool. But between his fear for Blythe and the sheer wonderful novelty of taking wing over the ocean, he was wired. Now that he was closer to the mist he could detect its weird colors. Somber shades from a dismal paranormal palette. And the smoky tendrils that tickled his belly slashed like razor wire.
He jerked away. If he inhaled that caustic vapor he was done. It lay over the island in a rough oval that was thinner at the margins. He would try a bit of frost there. He filled his lungs with fresh clean air and targeted the wispy leading-edge with his finest spray. He was rewarded with the tinkle of tiny hailstones and a view of thick woods. Time to strategize. He couldn’t neutralize all the fog without alerting the enemy.
The sentries might be amateurs and city-thugs, but a full-bore hailstorm would get their attention and endanger Blythe. But he could penetrate the fog by clearing a narrow slice, just wide enough for a swift visual inspection. Six or seven slices scattered over the oval ought to be sufficient.
The trick would be maintaining control of his breath and his frost. His self-control was at an all-time low. And he hadn’t had any opportunity to fine-tune his talent in almost ten years. He had spent a decade repenting the impulse that had led him to fight his cousin. But never had he regretted it more deeply than now.
Randall had been the instigator, but Neil had been a hotblooded fool willing to go mano a mano with his untested talent. Who could have guessed that his frost would so comprehensively extinguish Randall’s fire? Anyone with half a working brain. The result of his jackassery was that he was all but a murderer. And now his lack of finesse might kill his mate. There was some raw irony.
A fine drizzle of ice pellets fell unnoticed as he swept a thin triangle of fog bare from the edge to the roof of the house. The shore was protected by rocks in this location. Then patchy scrub gave way to wind-blasted trees. An overgrown lawn infiltrated by saplings and brambles surrounded the house. No sign of people.
He swung ninety degrees and performed his maneuver again. This time he got a lungful of toxic smoke and steam and had to fly off to recover. Had the paranormal vapor addled his wits? He almost thought he had detected a steadier pulse from Blythe’s ring. But the smog didn’t just catch in his windpipe, it laid bare monsters lurking in the mist. The signal could be another hallucination.
He was more careful with his next few passes. The house was boarded up, every window blank, and in even poorer repair than they had figured. The photos on the real estate site had to be twenty years out of date. This place needed a new roof and a coat of paint before the siding rotted. He didn’t spot any sentinels on land. Didn’t mean there weren’t any. But it did mean these thugs had no army.
The few pocket beaches he found were guarded by the sentry boats. Presumably they had been deployed to defend the known entry points. Good to know. They could make a plan of attack based on the assumption that all the boats protected docks or beaches. There was a cruiser tied up at the dock behind the caretaker’s cottage. What was with that jet ski moored off a lonely, unpatrolled beach?
As fast as he stopped breathing icy mist, the fog filled in and the island disappeared. Whatever that stuff was, it was powerful. Corrosive, toxic, mind-bending. Anyone capable of generating it so continuously possessed super-psi talent. Or had found a means of artificially producing it. A formidable foe.
All his instincts warned him that without swift rescue his bunny was doomed. A dose of that fog would kill any woman as small as she was. Is. He had to believe his mate was still alive. But for how long? They had no options. Poor visibility or not, they had to attack at dawn.
CHAPTER 47
Blythe~
Jinx appeared behind Lazarus. An unlikely savior. “You asshole, don’t you know she’s the Dom’s plaything?” Her lantern backlit Lazarus’ skull, enhancing that spectral appearance. Blythe was relieved to see that in the presence of light, her ring went dark.
Even fresh from sleep, Jinx’s chin-length black hair was sleek and her head-to-toe cat-burglar black was immaculate. No dust for Jinx. A black leather jacket and high-heeled black boots completed the evil super-villainess look and gave her a kinky vibe. She and the grungy junkie-biker made a distinctly odd couple.
“You’d better cough up some info quick, Chickie, or you’re going be one dead wee rabbit,” Jinx advised her coolly. “The Dom wants your friend, and what the Dom wants, he gets. And with the Dom, you can die hard or you can die easy.”
“Either way we get to watch,” Lazarus gloated.
Blythe didn’t have to pretend to shudder. Her fear was all too real. “What if I don’t know where Molly is?” she asked, keeping herself as low and small as possible in the face of this double menace. “I can’t reveal what I don’t know.”
Jinx shrugged. “Just so you know, you try that line out again, the Dom’s going to do you slow and hard to make sure.”
Lazarus sniggered. “Slow and hard,” he repeated. His pelvis jerked.
“Now, if that’s quite clear, I want to get some shut-eye,” Jinx said.
Between Lazarus’ blatant thr
eats, Jinx’s sadistic anticipation, and the prospect of Dom’s questioning, Blythe felt as vulnerable as this weird twosome no doubt preferred. For sure they were feeding on her fear and revulsion. Think, Rabbit, think. There had to be something she could use against Lazarus and Jinx.
“Can I use the bathroom, please?” Blythe begged.
“You can wait until morning,” Jinx snapped.
“We don’t want her pissing herself,” Lazarus said. “Smells bad enough in here already.” But he added that in a whisper.
“Up.” A gun appeared in Jinx’s hand.
All three of them went down the gloomy hallway, and down the wide shadowed stairs. Jinx left a lantern on the bathroom floor. She also locked the door. Blythe was willing to bet one of the keys on the ring she had found would work in the door, but so what? Jinx had a gun. And if she was armed, likely Lazarus was too.
Blythe used the facilities and washed her hands. The water was still cold and smelly, and on this floor the smell of death was strong enough to make her head spin. How did that pair of thugs endure it? It made her feel like hurling. Dizzy. Poisoned. Probably she should be grateful to be stashed upstairs. But it did make you wonder. Just what the heck was Dom?
Jinx opened the door without warning. “Let’s go, bitch, I want to get a bit of sleep tonight.”
Lazarus and Jinx marched Blythe back upstairs to the linen cupboard. Lazarus produced a bottle of water and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. He tossed them both onto the dirty floor.
“You’ll need your strength for the Dom’s little games.” His high-pitched giggle was scary.
“Thank you.” Blythe used her meekest voice. “Could I have a blanket please? It’s cold in here.”
“Whaddaya think this is? The fucking Hilton? But if you’re cold, bunny-girl, I’ll keep you warm.” Lazarus’ slimy tones made her feel grubbier than the floor.
“Don’t touch the prisoner,” Jinx snapped. “Remember what happened to Tom and Jerry.” She mimed a gun to the head.
Blythe was suddenly sure that Tom and Jerry were the Bieber twins. And that Jinx was Dom’s hit woman. She could work with that.
“Okay, okay. I’ll keep my hands off,” Lazarus agreed sullenly. “The Dom can keep his fucking pet all for himself.”
Blythe didn’t believe him for a moment. Neil’s words came back to her. Flats always look out for number one, first, second, and last. Probably went double for sharps. As soon as Lazarus figured Jinx was asleep, he’d be back to rape her. Despite his fear of Dom and Jinx, Lazarus wouldn’t have the self-control to resist. Her defenselessness would just be the curdled icing on his rancid little cake.
“Maybe he’ll let you have her when he’s used her up,” Jinx said silkily.
“Or maybe he’ll have Our Lady of the Lash here put a bullet in your head, Laz,” Blythe suggested, “like she did to the Bieber clones.”
For the moment Jinx had no comeback. Probably because Blythe’s guess was spot on.
Lazarus’ mouth fell open. He stared at Jinx, the picture of jumpy alarm. Of a methhead. “H-he w-wouldn’t do that. He needs me. Besides they didn’t want to give their crystals up.” Not the Bieber clones then. The Spider-Men? There were too many hoods for a rabbit to keep track of them all.
“I don’t have none.” His jitters were worse. She had shaken the methhead. “D-did you do Tom and Jerry?”
Might as well put the final nails in her coffin. “Of course she did.” Blythe went for the kill. “But you’re different, Laz, you’re indispensable.”
“Shut up, bitch.” Jinx backhanded Blythe across the mouth. “Just shut the fuck up.”
But Blythe had achieved her goal. She had Jinx and Lazarus at odds. She stepped out of range and wiped blood off her lip. “You’re safe, Laz. A dope dude like you can name his price. No more tweekers where you came from. Not that Jinx would need to waste a bullet, when Dom can just cut your meth with rat poison.”
Bull’s-eye. She’d drawn fresh blood. Lazarus was one rattled addict, and the rage that always simmered in a methhead’s veins rose in a tidal wave. Unfortunately, while it was Jinx he didn’t trust, Jinx was the one with the gun. He swung at Blythe.
Time slowed, she steadied herself, waiting for exactly the right moment. She had practiced for this. Remember his reflexes are shot by the drugs, but methamphetamines make users unnaturally strong. Unnaturally mean. She ducked, grabbed his moving arm from underneath, tugged, then rotated her body and hip-checked the bastard.
The twist plus his own weight sent Lazarus spinning into Jinx. By the time they had sorted the tangle out, Blythe was back inside the linen room, leaning against the shut door, heart pounding. If they decided to come in to beat the crap out of her, she was a dead woman. For ten minutes they squabbled in low, furious voices, as if awakening Dom were unthinkable.
Lazarus was all for teaching Blythe a lesson. Jinx swung between taunting Lazarus for letting a fucking bunny get the drop on him, and cajoling him into renewed faith in their partnership and respecting Dom’s claim on their hostage. Blythe had stirred up some major employee discontent. As much to get the last word as anything, Jinx locked the door.
“I’ll keep this,” she snarled. “I don’t trust you to keep your fucking limp noodle in your jeans.”
“What if there’s a fire? What’ll happen to the Dom’s piece if you’ve got the only fucking key?”
Okay, they didn’t know all the keys to the rooms were probably interchangeable. They had been intended to ensure privacy, not security. Good to know. As was the probability that Dom was using an addict as his heavy because he could count on Lazarus to put up with anything for his next hit.
Lazarus didn’t need a crystal to turn into a full-bore sharp. The meth had permanently eroded his morals, his common sense, and his empathy. Jinx however was using a crystal. Dom could have been crystal-enhanced, or he could be the creature from outer space. Nothing hung together, nothing made any sense, and she didn’t have time or the brainpower to sort any of it out.
“Use your imagination, motherfucker.” Jinx’s boots angrily tip-tapped down the hall and then down the stairs.
Faint with relief, Blythe sat on the floor to eat her sketchy meal. She wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth. The bread was stale, the ham and cheese tasted like salty plastic, the lettuce was both limp and chewy, but it was food. And she was alive. Ignoring her cut lip, she ate every bite and washed it down with the water.
Mercifully, Lazarus fell asleep again. His snores rattled the door. He had to be propped against it. At least she knew where he was and what he was doing. She resumed her exploration.
She couldn’t give up. There had to be something, somewhere, she could use as a weapon. Some way for the cheese to escape the trap. And somewhere out there, her mate was looking for her and expecting her to use her cunning.
CHAPTER 48
Neil~
SPAR had made it plain that Packard and Merritt were in charge of the raid, with Merritt taking the lead. Neil was just a son-of-Mars along to take orders. Being a grunt was a hard thing to swallow. But SPAR was right. He was too close to this thing to make difficult decisions. It wasn’t just Blythe’s life at stake. And he could never treat her as expendable.
Once the hawks had taken out the floating sentries, and commandeered their vessels, the three of them brought their kayaks silently ashore at the dock behind the caretaker’s cottage. That lowly dwelling had been placed to block the Big House’s view of the outbuildings necessary on an estate this large and remote. For their purposes, it blocked the Big House’s sight lines to the jetty.
Merritt had insisted they put on their gas masks as soon as they could see the fog. Neil had fully recovered from his inadvertent inhalation, but Merritt had decreed that they stay in human so they could wear their safety gear. It was awkward to run in the black hot-psi suits and breathing apparatus SPAR had provided, but it certainly created a fearsome alien impression.
The back door of the caretaker’s little cotta
ge was hanging off its hinges. Not a real surprise. The kidnappers weren’t the kind to balk at killing anyone who got in their way. B&E wouldn’t make them pause.
The surprise was that the caretaker was still alive. Barely. He was a white-haired man still dressed in his blue dungarees and work shirt, tied up and gagged with duct tape. He had been dumped on the kitchen floor.
“Dehydrated, and his pulse is weak,” Packard whispered after he had cut the old man’s bonds and ripped duct tape from his mouth. “Should we rouse him?”
Merritt nodded. They rubbed the caretaker’s arms and legs and when he gasped and opened his eyes, they fed him sips of water. Within minutes he was able to sit up. They helped him to a chair where he could prop himself against the table.
The fog had risen straight up, and as far as air went this cottage seemed to be a safe zone, but Merritt insisted they retain their masks. The smog was a weapon and they had to be ready for it. And of course this way the caretaker didn’t get to see their faces.
“I figured I was a goner,” the old man said once they had explained their frightening appearance. By then he had recovered enough to tell them his name was Ernie Gage. “What day is it?”
“Sunday night/Monday morning.”
“I been here since Thursday noon,” Gage said. “Couple pulled up to the dock. Figured they was just some folks sent to look the place over. Real estate agency sends them.” He snorted. “They come. They look. Mostly they don’t even come ashore. But this pair did. Next thing I know, they crack me one on the noggin and tie me up. Ain’t been back since.”
He struggled to rise from his chair. “I gotta call the police.”
Packard’s hands gently held him in place. “Where is your phone, sir?”
Age-spotted hands patted his chest. “Them dad-burned varmints took it. Ain’t ever had a landline. Bet the dad-burned radio batteries are dead too, ain’t used it in so long.”
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