Stained

by Ella James

  Of course, it was worth it, if barely, for the peace of mind. As stodgy as he was, she felt certain Cayne had her back. Which was better than being a sitting duck, alone.

  On their third day together, he moved them into an old tin furniture depot with a flat wood roof—because it was easier for Sam to penetrate. (Nice.)

  That night, as Julia lay under a rain coat she’d swiped from a coat rack in a bookstore, he said, out of nowhere, “We need to get you some stuff.”

  “Huh?” The comment was so random, it almost made her laugh. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Clothes, for one. A blanket to sleep on. And, I don’t know, whatever you need.”

  He wanted to get her clothes… She suppressed a little smile, trying to keep the odd pleasure she felt out of her voice.

  “And how are we going to pay for these things?”

  In the dark, she saw a flash of teeth. “I’ve got it covered.”

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, Cayne shook her awake and led her to a bright yellow taxi, parked outside their warehouse.

  A grumpy Indian man drove them to one of Memphis’ many Targets, where Julia quickly noticed that everyone Cayne encountered seemed to love him. All the customers smiled, like he was a good friend. So did the store’s cashiers. Even the men seemed charmed.

  “What’s going on?” she asked him, as they passed the $1 discount shelves at the front of the store.

  “What?” he said with an innocent face.

  She rolled her eyes. “Everyone seems to love you.”

  “You think I’m not lovable?” He said it dead-pan, and Julia couldn’t keep herself from smiling.

  “How much can we spend?”

  Cayne’s mouth quirked. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you sure?” Julia was suspicious. He seemed...amused.

  Cayne nodded, and when she asked a third time, he said, “Trust me. Money is not a concern.”

  So she got a pocket-sized bottle of designer shampoo, strawberry flavored lip gloss, cocoa vanilla body lotion, and a stick of deodorant. The rest of the essentials she had already klepto’d. In the women’s section, she grabbed a new pair of jeans, a pack of underwear (which she shoved under her blue jeans), a Rolling Stones t-shirt, and a hooded black sweatshirt, plus two pairs of fluffy socks.

  When they rolled their buggy to the register, Julia was surprised to find a sleeping bag waiting in a plastic Target bag. A shapely woman in a red vest smiled at Cayne. “I thought you might need this,” she explained as she handed it to him.

  Cayne returned her cheerful smile—that was weird—and passed it to Julia. Then an old guy with an Assistant Manager nametag appeared. He slapped Cayne once on the back and waved him to the door, wishing him and Julia an “excellent” day.

  To Julia’s utter astonishment, Cayne pushed their cart outside without dropping a penny. He seemed oblivious.

  She glanced behind them twice, convinced that the cops would storm up any second, and then waited till they got into the parking lot to ask him, “What the hell?”

  He looked into the buggy, and when her brows hurt from arching at him, he winked and graced her with a rare, brief smile. “I told you I had it covered.”

  “How did you do that? That was crazy!”

  It turned out “crazy” was an understatement.

  Mind control.

  Cayne practiced mind control.

  He explained it after a taxi cab pulled up—unbidden, as far as Julia could see—sliding closer to her and speaking very quietly while the driver followed his orders to “Just drive around for a while.”

  “Are you in my head right now?” she asked. “Is that why I’m doing this crazy Me as Bait plan? Because—”

  “No.”

  “And why should I believe you?” She thought of how little she’d cried over Suzanne and Harry. She’d actually been handling things remarkably well. “Are you the reason that I haven’t had a breakdown—because you hypnotized me?”

  “I can’t do it with you.”

  “Oh, and I believe that, Edward.”

  “Edward?”

  “Twilight!” He didn’t seem to recognize it. “You’ve never heard of Twilight?”

  “No.”

  Amazing. “Well whatever. I still don’t believe you.”

  “You should.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. “And he broke into a radiant smile. “If I could influence your mind,” he waved, “there would be none of this.”

  That was the last night they stayed in the warehouse. After Cayne explained that his mind control wasn’t actually mind control—more like heavy suggestion, which most people were pleased to accept—they moved to the Peabody. Julia didn’t necessarily approve of his voodoo, but she was tired of bathing with the fishes. Plus, she’d always wanted to stay there.

  When they got to their room—okay, a penthouse suite with rooms that must have been furnished for visiting royalty—Julia flopped down on an overstuffed couch, set her gaze on a wall of sparkly windows, and said, “Now this is a talent worth having. How do you do it?”

  “I’ll tell you,” he said, cryptically, “when you tell me how you do what you do.”

  She crossed her legs and stuffed a seashell-shaped pillow behind her head—the better to view the sunset.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, huh?”

  He arched one brow, and for a second, she figured he wouldn’t reply. Finally, he sat in a wing-backed chair and said, “It didn’t seem fair, you helping me for all these days.”

  Julia nodded, impressed. “I’m glad you came clean. Especially since I saved your tail.”

  “I would’ve been okay.”

  She snorted. “Right.”

  While Cayne ordered a plate of oysters—of all things—Julia got a long, steamy shower. Then they walked to the adjoining mall to “shop.”

  She racked up in a major way, and was thinking of heading back to the hotel when she realized Cayne hadn’t gotten anything for himself. She had the feeling Mr. Mystery wouldn’t know stripes from solids, so she took the liberty of picking him a few new outfits. He refused all but three shirts and two pairs of jeans, which helped alleviate her conscience. Because, well, she felt a little guilty, but she wasn’t just going to refuse free clothes. Who would?

  When, that night, Julia asked if he had a birthmark like hers, he actually laughed—so hard, in fact, that she decided to quit guessing.

  *

  Julia awoke to stark white light. She groaned and pulled the covers over her head. Too... early... to... be... so... “Ugh.”

  She heard laughter, low and thick, like morning fog.

  Cayne.

  She curled into a ball, thankful for the protective shell of her thick gold comforter.

  She still hadn’t gotten used to that: Cayne, who did not sleep, awake with her while she did. Cayne, who was movie-star hot, seeing her with bed-head.

  It was crazy. She hardly even knew the guy and they were sharing a hotel room. Sure, they were friendly-ish now, and it wasn’t like he was a serial killer or anything. He was…well, she didn’t really know, now did she? Maybe human? Maybe not?

  Julia frowned. She was going to find out. Today.

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes. After a week in warehouses, the lavish suite made her head spin. It was all rich colors and wealth—delicate crystal glasses and hand-painted plates set on end tables, spider-like chandeliers and heavy drapes. And lots of windows.

  Cayne stood before one of them, his big body angled so he could see Julia, the door, and most of the room. He gave her a look. It might have been irritation, or maybe curiosity. No, she decided as his brows bunched—definitely irritation.

  “You slept long enough.”

  Julia scowled as she slid off the super-high bed. “Good morning to you too. Did you stand there all night?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re creepy.”

  “You snore.”

>   “You’re wearing clothes that went out of style in 2001.”

  Cayne, looking puzzled, glanced down at his t-shirt—the same fitted gray one he’d worn every day since Julia met him.

  “Why don’t you wear the stuff I picked out?” His frown deepened, and Julia snapped her fingers. “Oh, I’ve got it. Because then you might pass as almost cool.”

  “I—”

  “I know. That would be too much for you.”

  Cayne gave her the evil eye, and she took a small step back, tripping over one of his Vans.

  “Like walking is too much for you?” he said.

  “Like taking a shower is too much for you.”

  “Like not drooling when you sleep is too much for you.”

  Youch. Em-bar-rass-ing.

  “Yeah, whatever.” She grabbed the channel changer and hurled it at him. Cayne snatched it from the air.

  “Watch some TV,” she said. “Might help your people skills. If they can be helped.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think?” At his vacant stare, she rolled her eyes. “I’m taking a shower.”

  “You already had one.”

  “Daily, Cayne. Most people bathe daily. I know I got a bath last night, but this is this morning. A new day.”

  “We have important things to do.”

  Julia threw up her hands. “I’m a girl. I like to stay clean. Unlike someone, who still smells like the river.”

  She smiled tightly as she closed the bathroom door, feeling bouncy and slightly breathless. Being with him in an enclosed space was something new. He was just so…magnetic. It was awful. Among other amazing things—the simple beauty of his hands, the not-brown-not-black color of his soft-seeming shaggy hair, infinite etceteras—Cayne did in fact not smell like the river. He smelled like…nature, the pure, clean kind. She’d caught herself trying to stand close to him just to catch a sniff. Ridiculous.

  As Julia scrubbed her arms, she reminded herself to watch out. She should trust him less. She should remember she hardly knew him. Instead, she remembered the dream she’d just had. He had been holding her, stroking her hair, his lips trailing down her— dude, was she serious?

  She dressed quickly, eager to get out of the steamy bathroom, and found Cayne cross-legged on the foot of the bed. He was staring at the TV, transfixed.

  Two girls in criminally small bikinis were bouncing around. Best of MTV’s Spring Break.

  Julia turned turned the TV off. “Didn’t you say we had important things to do?

  Chapter Seven

  Several hours later, Julia leaned on a sign outside the Memphis Zoo and groaned. The last thing she wanted to do was move. “Cayne, this is horrible.”

  He grinned. “It’s what?”

  “Hor-ri-ble.” So he liked the accent. “Could it be any hotter out here?”

  “Maybe if you complain more, the temperature will change.”

  “Maybe you should shut up.”

  Cayne smirked as Julia trudged behind him. He was in a weird mood. Too upbeat. She grabbed his sleeve as they moved through a sea of elementary school kids—a sea that parted gladly as they passed.

  They shot the breeze as they walked their usual haunts, high-rise-less areas where Sam could easily swoop down. Julia wasn’t thrilled with the location—it was hard to keep her mind off Harry and Suzanne when they were so close to her old home—but Cayne had insisted.

  The sidewalks were cracked, the buildings had break-in bars, busted cars lined the street, and there was a lot of barbed wire. Even the trees seemed run down. They were thin, crooked things with spindly branches and plastic-looking leaves.

  A woman in a blue button-up rushed out from a nearby Minute-Mart, fountain drink in hand. Julia thanked the lady, who smiled vacantly and sprinted back to the building. Her big boobs bounced, and Cayne tried to hide a smile. Julia laughed.

  “You’re such a perv,” she said.

  “Perv-ess.”

  “You can’t say that. –Ess only applies to stuff like heiress or princess.” She swatted his shoulder. “Isn’t that what you meant to say? Princess?”

  He drew away, and Julia saw goose bumps on his forearm. His pace quickened, and she hurried to keep up.

  Cayne gave her an incredulous look. A look he was giving her often now.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” she whined.

  “I’ve seen the infirm move faster.”

  She folded her arms.

  “Lepers have a longer gait.”

  “Ewww, lepers?”

  “Lepers.”

  Julia laughed. “When would you have seen a leper?”

  Cayne shrugged.

  “Okay, Mr. Mysterio, just chill.”

  “Are you scanning auras?”

  Julia elbowed him. “Quiet. And yes.”

  Her Sight worked all the time, but auras were barely discernible smudges when she wasn’t focusing; they ballooned to all-out color bubbles when she was.

  Cayne had told her that the more she used her Sight, the easier it would be for Sam to find her. It sent up a red flag…

  Or something like that. Julia had tried not to think much about her starring role as The Bait.

  “See anything?”

  “Mmm…mostly not-so-good stuff. Brown. A lot of people are brown. Not all-out done for, you know, just sad or maybe tired, that day-to-day blah stuff.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m seeing more yellow-green than usual,” she said quietly. “That’s sick. A lot of them are red, too. Mad.”

  “Has anyone ever noticed when you read them?”

  “Some of my friends thought I was psychic sometimes. And sometimes it would make me act weird, knowing stuff I shouldn’t know. Like if Suzanne—” Julia drew in a breath. “Um...if someone was sad and they didn’t want me to know, I would if I was looking.”

  “That seems useful.”

  She nodded. “I can always spot a rat. I can tell if you’re a pink person or a blue one or a red one in general, because your undertone is always the same. Everyone has a certain look.”

  Cayne looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “What do you think of mine?”

  Julia hesitated, and his nerves flared in Christmas colors. She pasted on a grin. “That’s going to cost you an answer to one of my questions.”

  Cayne actually looked tempted, if only for a second. Then he shook his head.

  “All right.” She rolled her eyes. As she did, she caught something red. About fifty yards away, above a cluster of oak trees, she saw a giant crimson flare, and then an explosion of purple pain.

  She gasped, and Cayne moved in front of her. “Is it him?”

  Julia shook her head. They’d been going in a circle and were almost back to where they’d started, near a little park beside the Minute-Mart.

  Cayne’s fingers pressed into the tender skin inside her elbow. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. A fight or something.”

  “Then it doesn’t concern…” he trailed off as Morris Park came into view and a ghastly pot-bellied man slapped a woman’s cheek. His aura was red. Hers was purple-black.

  The woman slapped him back, and then he hit her again.

  “Oh my God. We have to do something,” Julia insisted, but Cayne was pulling her away. “That woman needs help! You’re a guy! You’re bigger than him, Cayne! Chivalry!”

  The woman was dashing out in front now, the man chasing after her. Julia looked desperately for someone, anyone, but a wino on the other side of the street was shuffling away, and the few passing cars didn’t slow.

  “What if that was me?”

  She looked at Cayne with wide, sad eyes, and he nodded. “Stay close.”

  Julia followed him across the street, and the abuser didn’t even notice their silent approach. Cayne walked up behind the man, wrapped his fingers around his throat, and squeezed—all done calmly, like he was in complete control. The woman fumbled to her feet and ran,
sobbing, down the sidewalk.

  The man, now red-faced, clawed at Cayne’s arm. He made a garbled screaming sound, and Cayne said, in a serious voice, “Calm down.”

  The mad did, but with unintended consequences. He stopped clawing at Cayne’s arm and reached inside his coat.

  *

  Cayne jerked as a bullet exploded out his back. Julia ducked as a second blast knocked him a step back. He didn’t let go of the gunman. Instead, his grip tightened, and the man’s neck snapped with a horrifying pop.

  Cayne pushed the corpse away and sagged to one knee, more kneeling than falling. Blood bloomed around the golf ball-sized hole over his kidney, where jagged pink flesh framed an ink pit of crimson that ran onto his jeans.

  “Cayne!”

  He shoved Julia away and was standing before she was, one hand pressed against a smaller leak in his lower ribcage, the other over the gory spot below his pec.

  Before she could speak or get her hands on him to start healing, Cayne started toward the Minute-Mart.

  “Cayne,” Julia moaned. He kept moving.

  “Stop and let me help you!”

  He grunted and shook her off. Julia ran in front of him and planted herself in his path. “What are you doing? Let me heal you!”

  Cayne’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need it.”

  “You’re bleeding to death!”

  “I’m fine!” he snapped.

  Having no idea what else to do and terrified that he would fall, Julia wedged herself under his shoulder and wrapped her right arm around his waist. She glanced at his shirt, stuck to his skin; she could see his quivering muscles, bunching and flattening with each step.

  The woman from the Minute-Mart met them at the entrance, her arms filled with gauze and ointments. Julia took the supplies, and the woman locked the glass doors behind them. Under the fluorescent lights, the scene took on a dream-like quality: Cayne, shot twice. Not dead. Still standing. Still walking on his own.

  He lumbered into the bathroom and leaned on the sink, blood dripping from the wound above his pec. It splattered red against the porcelain.

  “I need to get the bullets out,” he said without lifting his head.

  Right. Julia was too scared to feel stupid. But she noticed that his voice sounded strong and his legs seemed sturdy. Was he really okay? After two shots at point-blank range?

  Cayne angled himself away from her and fumbled with the water knobs. When the mirror began to steam, he pushed his hands under the water, closed his eyes, and sighed.

  He wasn’t dead yet, so Julia set the gauze down on a paper towel dispenser and focused on reigning in her urge to heal. At least until he got the bullet out.