Black and Blue

by Gena Showalter

  Now her fight-or-flight response kicked in, and, as always, fight won. She jerked against her bonds until the skin on her wrists and ankles was shredded and blood dripped from the wounds.

  Not helping the situation, girl.

  Panting, she sagged against the mattress. Took stock. She was trapped in a room of utter luxury. There was a chandelier overhead, thousands of crystals glinting in the light. The walls were papered with slightly yellowed lace. Clearly an older home. In the Western district, maybe. An affluent "don't ask, don't tell" part of town.

  The door opened, hinges groaning, and Tyson strolled in. He wore a business suit and had his hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. His gaze immediately sought her. "Good. You're awake."

  Anger rocked her. "Where's Blue?"

  "What? No worry for your father? We haven't yet found him, you know, so half of our forces are out there looking. But don't get any ideas about trying to escape while we're so divided," he rushed to add, realizing he'd said more than he should. "As weak and puny as you are, you'll never be able to take on all of us."

  Weak? Puny?

  Trying to save face for the nose job I gave you?

  She couldn't worry about her father. It would cloud her thoughts, compromise her instincts. Besides, he could take care of himself. "What do you plan to do with Blue?"

  "Me? Nothing." Tyson removed his jacket, revealing the pyre-guns sheathed at his sides. "Your man made a mistake challenging my father. He'll make sure Blue understands that before he kills him."

  Have to escape. Have to save him. "What are you going to do with me?"

  There was a pitcher of water on the dresser. He poured himself a glass and drained the contents. His features were pinched as he said, "To be honest, I haven't figured that out yet."

  He wasn't as hard-core as his father or he would have hurt her already. She could work with that.

  If possible, establish camaraderie. "Will you cut me loose, at least? Please. I don't have any weapons. I don't even know where I am. There's nothing I can do to you while I'm this weak, and nowhere I can go."

  He ignored her, lifting her purse. "I remembered the weapons you had in the last bag, so I thought I'd find a treasure trove in this one after I peeled it from your unconscious body. Instead, all I found was toys." He sneered. "Just one of many mistakes you've made."

  Each one of those toys will drop and sock you, boyo. "What can I say? I'm easily bored."

  "That's because you had a rich, pampered childhood. Unlike Tiffany and me, who were punished for every wrong we ever committed, real or otherwise." He poured another glass and brought this one to her, placing the cup at her lips.

  She drank greedily, desperate to wash the soot from her throat. When she finished, she licked her mouth and, to relax him, offered a small smile. "Thank you."

  "You're lucky I decided to keep you," he said tightly, "rather than let my father do what he wanted to do to you." He set the cup aside and traced his knuckles along her jaw.

  She flinched from the contact, acting the part of the frightened little lamb.

  A muscle ticked under his eye. "I'm not a bad guy, Miss Black."

  Okay. Screw camaraderie. A statement that grotesquely wrong couldn't be ignored. "Your father has kidnapped and killed innocent people. He removed the skin of a living man. He bombed two of my father's homes. This time you helped him. So, yes, you're a bad guy."

  He scowled down at her. "Is this the part where you try to convince me to help you prove I'm nothing like the man who sired me? Well, let me save you the trouble. No one challenges my father, and that includes me. I've never bucked the system, for myself or my sister, and I certainly won't do it for you. A pretty woman whose sharp little tongue ruins everything."

  Only a strong man could truly appreciate a strong woman. "Tyson," she said, once again going for frightened little lamb.

  His scowl morphed into the semblance of a smile. "Bet you wish you'd been nicer to me over the years, huh?"

  With that, he strode from the room, shutting her inside.

  Over the years?

  She'd encountered him at a few parties, she was sure, but she couldn't recall being rude to him specifically.

  You've been rude to everyone.

  Okay. True.

  There was no clock, so she couldn't track time. She only knew an eternity passed. Her stomach growled. Her bladder filled and began to hurt. She worried about Blue, about what was being done to him. Had Michael been well enough to follow Tyson here? Was her father aware she had the isotope in her blood? That he could track her the same way Star tracked Tiffany?

  Maybe not. But if Tiffany was here . . . He could track her.

  Would Star really be that stupid, though?

  Finally, Tyson returned. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothing wrinkled. There were lipstick stains on his collar, and he reeked of smoke, alcohol, and sex.

  "I'll be nicer to you," she said with as much eagerness as she could muster. "Please. Just free me. I have to use the bathroom."

  "I know you'll be nicer, Miz Black. You've had time to think and you've realized it'll be better for you to make friends with me and do whatever I tell you." Smirking, he stumbled to her side and untied her, surprising her.

  Don't leap into action. Wait. Plan.

  He remained at her side, rather than offering to escort her to the bathroom. She rubbed at her wrists. Was he too drunk to remember her major badassery skills? Or did he think the threat over Blue would keep her docile? Yeah. That one. Typical bully move.

  "What time is it?" she asked in an effort to keep him relaxed.

  "Midnight. The time for lovers," he said with a leering grin.

  Gah! Gonna play that game, were they? "Is Blue here? In this house?"

  "Still worried about him? How sweet. Well, you'll be happy to know he is indeed here, and he's alive. Barely. We wanted you close to him, just in case we needed to convince him to behave." His gaze bored into hers. "But I'd be better off killing you, I think. I can't ever let you go. You know too much."

  "Know too much? Me? Nah," she said. "Besides, I'd never tell."

  "Liar," he said, and slapped her.

  A trickle of blood ran through her mouth. Her eyes narrowed on him. "Do not do that again."

  "You are known for your brutal sense of truth, and yet you dare lie to me? When I hold your fate in my hands?"

  "You're right. I do know too much, and I will tell. But I'm going to hurt you real bad first."

  "Doubtful." His head tilted to the side as he studied her. "I left a club full of women desperate to warm my bed. For you. Last time we were together, I was too concerned for my sister to feel much for you. Now I don't want to have what I've already had when I can have something new."

  Plan: kill him, find Blue.

  Done.

  "What did you have in mind?" she asked. "I'm assuming you'll beat me if I refuse."

  To kill him: rip out his larynx? Yeah. That would work. It was satisfying (for her), and quiet. Any guards posted outside the door would remain unaware.

  "You're assuming correctly." His eyes brightened with triumph. "But I'll even throw in a bonus and let you earn medical treatments for Blue."

  Wanker. "Such as?"

  "First up, you're going to suck me off, and in return I'm going to have someone realign Blue's spine. See how kind I can be?" He stood and stalked to the dresser, though he never took his gaze off her. His fingers toyed with the button on his jeans. "What do you think?"

  "I think I want to decline," she said with a sugary-sweet smile. "If I'm being honest."

  His grin bloomed all over again. "I almost hope you do decline. Because my next order of business will be to go down and break Mr. Blue's spine in other places."

  Go down.

  So. Blue was downstairs, and she was up. A priceless piece of information.

  For dramatic effect, she shuddered. "All right. Okay. We understand each other," she said, and threw her legs over the side of the bed. As she
walked forward, she pretended her knees were trembling, and staged a trip. Then she crawled the rest of the way.

  He seemed to like her fear, proudly squaring his shoulders when she reached him.

  She slowly lowered his zipper.

  "If you bite me," he said, gripping the hair at her nape in a hard, intractable fist, "you'll end up needing a wire for your jaw."

  "No. Please. Anything but that." Too much? "Are you a screamer?" she asked softly.

  He softened his stance, saying, "Only if you're good."

  "Oh, I'm very good." She pulled his pants and underwear down to his ankles. His erection bobbed in front of her face. No wonder he had such terrible rage issues. Little Ty-Ty had been teased in the school bathroom, hadn't he?

  "I'll be the judge of that. Now do it," he gritted, as though in pain.

  With pleasure, she thought.

  She balled her hand and punched his sac as hard as she possibly could. He doubled over and, lightning fast, she rammed her other hand into his nose, breaking it a second time.

  As blood spurted, he opened his mouth to bellow, but she slapped a hand over his lips, silencing him. Forget the larynx thing. She had a better idea. He stumbled forward, tripped over his pants, and landed on his knees. She popped up and grinned.

  And then she kicked him in the back of the head with so much force he immediately crumpled into a wilted heap.

  Just for fun, she kicked him again. Then, working fast, she rooted through her purse and found two of the tubes of lipstick. With a little fancy finger work, the tubes were transformed into mini pyre-guns. Yes. Like Swiss Army makeup.

  Killing was out, and torture was in. She dragged the motionless Tyson to the bed and, through sheer grit and determination, got him up on the mattress. He could be leveraged. After engaging the laser cuffs on his wrists to keep him in place, stuffing his mouth full of tube socks, and punching him again just for funzies, she removed his weapons.

  The guns she couldn't use. They were programmed to his ID and useless for everyone else. But she found a switchblade and claimed it as her own.

  Up next: bladder relief.

  When she stalked out of the bathroom, life was worth living again.

  Now for the tricky part of the plan. Getting to Blue.

  Were there guards stationed outside the room?

  Probably.

  She draped her purse around her side, opened the door, and peeked out quickly. Wow. Empty. Tyson had been that sure of himself. There were three other doorways before the hallway curved. Tiptoeing, she walked to the first door, listened. No sounds. She peeked inside. A bedroom. Furnished, and clean, as if no one had been inside in a very long time. Or ever.

  The other two were the same.

  So the guards didn't live up here. A blessing. No one would be sneaking up on her.

  She moved to the top of the stairs and paused, peering down a small alcove into the living room. There were ten armed males. Most had their backs to her. Some gazed out the windows, watching for intruders. Some paced between the living room and kitchen. Two sat in front of a wall of screens, probably watching the security feed.

  Evie lay on the floor and dug through her purse, setting the Rubik's Cube and the golf ball at the ledge, and anchoring the glasses on the bridge of her nose. The lenses sealed off her eye sockets, preventing any air from penetrating. Then she placed both guns in position.

  Deep breath in . . . release . . . she pushed the cube and golf ball over the ledge with her chin. A second of normalcy, then . . . boom!

  A violent gust of heat blew her hair all around her shoulders. Smoke thickened the air and debris rained. Men screamed. Not only did the glasses protect her from the poison, they also allowed her to see past the smoke. She focused on the men still standing, running this way and that, and squeezed the triggers of her guns. Two bright streams of yellow light pierced the chaos, hitting her targets. They slumped forward. Her next two targets went down just as easily.

  A few of the men seemed immune to the poisoned air that should have swelled their eyes shut, and turned toward her, searching for the source of the gunfire. Now that she'd thinned the herd, she had a little more room for error. So she just started firing. Down, down, down men fell. The last one managed to whip out his gun and shoot in her direction, but the miasma distorted his aim and the blaze soared just over her shoulder. She felt the sear of the flames but not the sting. Then he, too, was dead, and she was standing.

  Hold on, Blue. I'm coming for you.

  Twenty-eight

  ACOMMOTION BEYOND THE CELL diverted Star's attention from Blue, and the man frowned at his daughter.

  Tiffany sat on a stool in the corner, watching everything that happened. She wasn't happy to be there. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her cheeks red with tear tracks, and she whimpered every time her father hurt Blue. But Star had told her to stay and "learn the family trade," and so she had stayed.

  "Go find out what's going on," Star commanded.

  "Yes, sir," she replied dutifully, and tripped from the cell.

  Blue was happy to see her go. He was strapped to a table, unable to move, and the extra set of eyes pissed him off. So did his failure. He hadn't managed to steal Star's health.

  Now he was waiting for his body to heal on its own.

  The spacious cell had no bars, only concrete walls and a door. It reminded him of the room he'd seen in the video, the one with John. There was a single light, a too-bright halogen bulb, hanging overhead, and his bomb-sensitive eyes burned as if they'd been set on fire.

  Was Evie nearby?

  Star faced him. "Ready to continue?" he said with a sigh, waving a scalpel in the air. "You should have walked away when I gave you the chance. Now I'm going to treat you to the same procedure I treated John to. A procedure I learned years ago while living on the streets. Did you know that? How poor I was as a child? Sometimes I had to kill for my dinner, and not just to steal what someone else had. People do terrible things when they're hungry."

  Do not comment. Make the monologue last.

  "I know, because terrible things were done to me." Star's hand tightened on the knife.

  Won't feel sorry for him.

  "I learned to protect myself, though, and always went back for revenge. Now I help others who can't help themselves. It's a public service, really."

  "You also hurt innocents." The words slipped out.

  Star shrugged. "Is anyone ever really innocent, Mr. Blue? No matter our age, we've all hurt someone in some way."

  "Some of us are sorry about that."

  "That doesn't make the pain go away." Back on topic, he said, "Your flesh is battered and bruised and won't fetch me any money, but it will make a nice trophy for my case. You've caused me considerable trouble, Mr. Blue."

  "You deserved it," Blue gritted.

  "For defending my empire? If anything, I should be commended. I couldn't let you come along and cause my clients to doubt my capabilities. Couldn't let them wonder how I could possibly punish their enemies when I couldn't punish my own."

  A twitch in Blue's fingers.

  Movement?

  He tried again. His finger rubbed against the plastic blanket spread out underneath him. Finally! He'd begun to heal. His power wouldn't be far behind.

  Can't grin.

  He grinned.

  Star narrowed his eyes. "I would have injected you with painkillers so that you wouldn't feel the worst of it, but I'm recording this to show to anyone who thinks to come against me in the future, and I'm going to need you to scream. I'll start with your toes and work my way up. Afterward I may or may not put you out of your misery. You'll have to beg. John did."

  "I'm going to enjoy killing you." Come on. Come the hell on! Another twitch, this time in his wrist.

  "No need to be rude, Mr. Blue. Especially since I control the fate of your girlfriend as well as your friend. Instead of hurting her in front of you, I did you the courtesy of placing her in the care of my son. He'll make sure she experie
nces . . . pleasure."

  A tide of rage spilled through him, and his shoulder twitched. "How sweet of you."

  "Yes. It was. And now for your pain." Star hunched over Blue's left foot and slid the tip of the blade just underneath his skin.

  Blue's nerves were in the process of coming back to life. He felt the sting and hissed in a breath.

  Star worked slowly, dragging out the terrible sensations. Finally he straightened and brushed his bloody hands together for a job well done. "The first toe is finished. Now for the second. The secret is in the angle of the wrist. Too far this way and you'll tear. Too far that way and I'll take muscle, too."

  As the blade slid underneath the nail of the second toe, Blue's entire leg jerked to avoid the pain.

  "Steady now. I'll call the guards in to restrain you further if I must."

  A white-hot lance rode the waves of every nerve in his body, and Blue cried out. He'd never felt anything so terrible, and his rage grew. John experienced this. For hours.

  "So dramatic," Star said with a nod. "Keep it up."

  The blade began to move, and Blue waved his fingers. They were his to control again. He turned his head left, right, the bones popping. Good. No problems there, either. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop another grin.

  His power hadn't returned, but he was back in the game.

  He had one chance to do this. Only one.

  He closed his eyes and drew what strength he possessed into his core. Then, arching his back, putting his weight into his shoulders and elbows, he jerked at the straps confining his wrists. The material snapped apart.

  Frowning with confusion, Star straightened.

  Blue jolted upright and fit his fingers around the man's neck, squeezing. Drawing from the man's strength and health, his muscles began to plump; Star's began to wither.

  Eyes wide, Star desperately tried to pull away and, when that failed, remembered he was holding a scalpel and stabbed Blue in the neck. Blue experienced a sharp sting, felt a warm spurt of blood.

  But only a few seconds later Blue healed and the injury appeared on Star.

  The man's blood filled Blue's hands and slicked his skin, and he lost his grip. Star clutched his neck and stumbled away from him, gasping for breath.