Stained

by Ella James

  “I’m tired, too,” she said.

  So they slept.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  When they were close to D.C., Julia pulled Cayne onto the cot and kissed him. Where in the past forty-eight hours things had been pretty PG-13, they now broached R territory.

  Cayne broke contact when things started getting really hot and disappeared into the hall. He returned with doughnuts, coffee, and The Washington Post.

  He sat in the leather chair and skimmed the paper. Julia looked past him, out the window. The sky was blue-gray, with dirty looking clouds that hung low to the ground. She felt claustrophobic.

  Cayne closed the paper—apparently there was no front-page story about a Stained retreat—and stood to look out the window. Julia joined him. “How will we know what we’re looking for?”

  “If Rosa said answers will find you, they’ll find you.” Cayne sounded as enthusiastic as she felt. “We wait.”

  Julia hugged herself. She didn’t want to leave the train. She had a feeling that something bad would happen.

  Already, she was seriously regretting their decision to follow Rosa’s advice. An organized group of Stained—a group that had assassins and possibly zombie-like bikers and who knew what else, a group that was actively participating in some weird-people war—wasn’t Julia’s idea of a good time.

  But she needed to know more about herself, more about her birth parents, more about her purpose. She was sick to death of being a pointless orphan, even a pointless orphan with a hot half-demon boyfriend.

  Cayne knelt by the cot, where Julia sat triple-coating her toenails.

  He scrunched his nose and put a hand on her knee. “Close your eyes.”

  Julia did, expecting a kiss. Instead, she felt his finger press on her forehead. Then she felt a sharp sting.

  “Ow.”

  “Sorry,” he said hastily. “I created a link between us. That way if we somehow get separated, we’ll be able to find each other.”

  “Seriously?” He nodded. “Why didn’t you do this weeks ago?”

  He shrugged.

  “Oh.” She pouted, rubbing her stinging skin. “Well you could have told me it would burn.”

  Cayne ran a finger over the spot. “But then you wouldn’t have let me do it.”

  Julia gave him her evilest evil eye, and that’s when she noticed something in her head; a warm glow that, strangely, felt like his lips.

  “Do you care?”

  She shook her head, suddenly shy. “I think I maybe like it.”

  “I like it too.” He smiled, and she was dazzled. “Even if you are cluttering things up.”

  “I am not! My mind is in perfect working order.”

  “Whatever you say, runaway.”

  “You’re a poet.”

  “And I didn’t realize it.”

  Julia rolled her eyes as the intercom crackled to life, and an over-eager voice announced that the Union Station, D.C. stop was ten miles away.

  “Cayne?” she said, lacing up her All-Stars and getting up to pace. “Do you think we should be worried? Not worried, I guess, but you know, extra vigilant or something? I know you said whatever it is will find us, but what if it’s—”

  Her worries were muffled by Cayne’s hand on her mouth. He pulled her back against his front, wrapped his arm around her hips, and let his head drop to her shoulder. His cheek, rough with stubble, brushed her own.

  “Nothing will hurt you.”

  He turned her to him and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I need you to promise me something.” She nodded. “If somehow we should get separated, or even if we don’t, I want you to promise to consider your safety above anything.”

  Julia started to protest—it sounded an awful lot like he was saying, “Ditch me if you have to”—but he looked into her eyes and said, “Please.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Thank you.”

  Washington was springing up around them, a confusing maze of cement and glass and asphalt and traffic. “I think maybe we should just keep riding this thing,” she said.

  “You need to know.”

  “How will that change anything? Sam will want to kill me regardless, and he’ll always want you, right? Cayne,” she whispered, “what if this goes wrong?”

  His expression softened; he pulled her to him. “It won’t,” he said. “You’ll be all right.”

  He kept an arm around her as they got off the Amtrak. This Union Station looked like a mall—a wide-open space with brick floors, a fancy ceiling, fat columns, and stores—and, like its cousin, it was jam-packed with people: men and women with brisk strides wearing suits and clutching briefcases, college students with iPads and team sweatshirts, tourists in windbreakers and jeans with cameras and shopping bags.

  It was, for a split second, shocking. After the relative quiet and isolation of the train, Julia found the writhing mass of people overwhelming. But Cayne squeezed her shoulder and whispered in an exotic language into her ear.

  He stopped at a locker, fed it one of their last five-dollar bills, and deposited their bags, and then they found the Metro line. The hub was all shadows and wind and creaking steel, and in those shadows, between plastic chairs and big windows, Julia imagined all sorts of frightening beings.

  By the time they made it out of Union Station, Cayne looked ready to kill—her, a Nephilim, anyone really—and Julia was giddy in an Oh-My-God-What’s-Going-To-Happen way. It was reckless, but she’d take it. She’d take any relief she could find.

  Her fear-sharpened senses made everything vivid: the watercolor orange and purple streaks across the sky, the feel of Cayne’s body brushing hers, the smell of asphalt and trees.

  “Oh my God, the Capitol!” Julia gawked.

  Cayne didn’t seem interested in the sights. He was back on his game, tracking everyone as he moved with Julia beneath his arm, sticking to the shadows, keeping a distance from the crowd.

  He was obviously thinking about the danger of their situation. Julia realized she should be, too, but the city had turned her into a stupid sightseer. She oohed and aahed over the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument and the reflecting pool.

  She told herself this wasn’t so bad. They were together, strolling alongside the Potomac, leaving their footprints in famous places.

  After Cayne rolled his eyes at the White House (and Julia’s enthusiasm at seeing it), she realized that he was one hundred percent detached from the excitement she was feeling. That knowledge finally killed her mood.

  The sky had become an angry purple, and she started to wonder what night held for them, penniless and unable to use Cayne’s powers of persuasion. She saw a gaggle of tourists about her age and let out a long breath. Cayne had revealed that he could pick pockets, so there was always that.

  He rubbed her shoulder, and they walked on, first to more historical sites—the Jefferson Memorial, the Vietnam Wall—before moving into the city, eyes peeled for lodges or dull buildings where “stained” people could meet in anonymity. They even went to Georgetown. When Julia told Cayne it was one of the schools she’d been considering, he whistled.

  “You must be a real dork.”

  He grinned, and she punched him.

  Six hours after they started, the moon was beginning to rise. Julia yawned; Cayne looked tired, too, but maybe he was just tired of her whining.

  At last, he said, “Let’s go back to the Mall.”

  “Fine.” Julia sighed. “Are you sure about Rosa’s track record?”

  Cayne gave her a long look.

  “What if we’re just wasting time?” She felt a spark of peace—she half-hoped they wouldn’t find anything—and then a spark of panic. So many unknowns. “Are we, like, expecting some old person with a cane and a powdered wig to pull me into the bushes and tell me this big secret?” Julia scowled. “I wish we could just use your mojo. Get a hotel. Forget it.”

  Cayne ignored her suggestion and instead told her
about Scotland—plaids were made to blend in with a clan’s environment, not everyone wore tartans, etc.—as they found a bench on the west side of the National Mall. They sat back-to-back, one set of eyes for each direction, and Julia listened to his stories.

  Cayne was explaining school life when he reached for her hand. “Trouble.”

  His grip was painfully tight as he jerked her off the bench and into the crowd. He was all but carrying her as they dashed past trees and tour guides and students with band instruments.

  Julia was weak with relief when he slowed in front of a big building with columns—one of the Smithsonians—and pushed her ahead.

  “Go on,” he ordered.

  “Cayne.” She struggled to drag in a breath.

  “It’s okay.” But of course it wasn’t; they were moving again and she couldn’t find the air to ask what was wrong.

  Cayne walked smoothly past the ticket booth, obviously using his mojo again, which meant they must have really been caught. When they got inside, he steered her toward a dinosaur exhibit.

  “We’re being followed by a Nephilim,” he said quickly. “He caught my eye in the Mall. We may have lost him—” Cayne slowed by a man-sized femur and flicked a quick gaze behind. “—but, damnit, we didn’t.”

  Julia snuck a peak at a Hispanic man with a buzzed head and a short beard. He was slightly shorter than Cayne, and a lot thicker. He wore a black leather trench coat and thick, dark shades.

  Cayne pulled her under the red velvet rope and into a family of Triceratops.

  “I don’t think he saw us.” He ushered her between two of the larger models. “That’s right.” And as Julia tried to drop behind: “No, you’re in front.” She picked up the pace, and he directed her to the fake jungle in the middle of the exhibit. “There are two more,” Cayne said.

  He stopped Julia in the space between two huge palm trees and angled himself between her and the front of the museum. They both froze as the intercom crackled, and a very proper voice said the museum would close in ten minutes.

  Cayne squeezed her wrist. “It’ll be okay.”

  Julia nodded, for a second fully aware that they were being surrounded but were just standing there with all the dinosaurs. Cayne pressed something into her hand, and she stared stupidly at his dagger. On the train he’d given her some basic lessons on how to use it, but she wasn’t ready.

  Julia didn’t have time to say so. She glimpsed their friend, very close, and then Cayne shoved her through plastic leaves. They ducked the red rope and came out in a wide open space, and then Cayne was hurling her forward.

  As he jerked her into a run, a loud voice boomed: “Stop right there!”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Move!” Cayne hissed, but the other voice, thick with authority, overruled his: “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  They stopped. Cayne pulled Julia to his chest and she turned her head. Two men—security guards in khaki uniforms—were pointing guns at her. Their auras were fringed with bright, nervous hues.

  “Raise your hands slowly,” the older one ordered while the second spit a backup call into his radio.

  Julia started raising her arms, but Cayne pushed them back down. And that’s when she noticed: the guards weren’t aiming at her. They were aiming at the Hispanic Nephilim.

  His face was serene, and nothing on it or in his body language suggested he was going to comply.

  Everyone else watching the conflict seemed to reach the same conclusion. Gawking tourists began to edge away. Museum employees glanced at each other nervously and followed. The guards’ voices roughened as the half-demon refused to follow their orders.

  “Sir, if you don’t show me your hands, I’ll have to fire.”

  Their target smiled grimly. The guards aimed at his heart. Several others approached, guns drawn.

  Cayne began to pull Julia away. Then, slowly, the Nephilim raised his hands.

  “That’s good,” the first guard said. “Now—”

  In a flash, his trench coat was sailing above him, and a long wicked sword was glinting under fluorescent light. Nobody moved or even breathed as the Nephilim reached the first guard and decapitated him.

  The guard’s body tumbled, spurting blood. Someone shrieked, and the crowd scattered like hunted geese. The guards opened fire. Julia saw a shower of bullets punch the Nephilim as Cayne jerked her away. She saw his skin erupt in fire and blood. He killed two more guards and she knew then that he would kill them all.

  They raced down a hall, flying past glass cases filled with plants and taxidermied animals. They burst out an emergency exit and into a parking lot dotted with short, white tour buses.

  Cayne shoved her down almost immediately, and an arrow whooshed over their heads. Two Nephilim charged out the museum door—one with a blood-red bow, the other with a crimson sword. The archer let another arrow fly, and Cayne tossed Julia out of the way. “I’m dropping the link.”

  Even before he finished his sentence, Julia felt a vacancy in her head, the absence of something hot and solid and distinctly Cayne.

  An arrow sliced Cayne’s left side as he and the archer collided on the asphalt. Cayne jerked the bow away and pushed the Nephilim into the arch of the second’s swinging sword. The archer lost an arm. His blood, the brightest red Julia had ever seen, spewed from the nub at his shoulder like a fountain.

  The other Nephilim swung again. His blade caught Cayne on the head, and a string of blood followed it through its arch.

  One moment, Julia’s body felt leaden. Frozen. The next, she leapt at the Nephilim, charged with an almost supernatural force. Then he swung his elbow into her stomach and she collapsed, dropping Cayne’s dagger as she gasped. Cayne tackled the sword-wielding Nephilim—his ear had been severed, Julia saw; it was oozing dark, thick blood—and Julia scrambled for his blade. She nicked her finger on it as she tossed it to Cayne.

  He snatched it from the air and plunged it into his opponent’s chest, then beheaded him. The Nephilim’s body fell jerkily as a geyser of blood erupted from his neck.

  It was over.

  Moving under the glow of streetlamps, Julia lunged for Cayne and buried her face in his warm chest. He wrapped his arms around and ran his fingers through her hair. “Good job.”

  “Your ear.” She ran her hand up his neck, but Cayne caught it.

  “Just stop the bleeding. Save your energy.”

  “But—”

  “It will grow back.”

  She did as he’d asked, but she added a little something extra to help it along. Cayne hugged her. “I meant what I said.” He grinned. “You’re an asset.”

  Julia rolled her misty eyes. “You’re such a dork.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think that’s—”

  The exit door banged open, and Julia snapped her head toward it. The broad, Hispanic Nephilim from the museum emerged like a living nightmare. Every inch of him was covered in blood. Holes pocked his torso and chest, his arms and legs, and even his head; one above his eye was still smoking.

  Julia gagged and clung to Cayne. He pushed her behind him and summoned his dagger.

  The Nephilim opened his mouth, and his pink tongue rolled out. “Is it true you have forgotten us, Cayuzul?”

  Julia shuddered. Cayne was stiff as a statue, staring at the half-demon with narrowed eyes. “You should run,” he said softly.

  It took Julia a second to realize he was talking to her. “What?”

  “This is a Bound.” His lips pursed as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. “He can possess human bodies.”

  “And devour souls,” the Bound added, sounding amused.

  Julia blanched. Things like that existed?

  With a gruesome smile, the Bound lunged. Cayne blocked the thing’s sword with his shoulder. He grunted and drove his dagger into the Bound’s arm. “Get outta here,” he yelled, his voice thick. “I can’t kill it if you’re near!”

  Julia nodded, stricken with the realization that she’d hav
e to leave—or risk possession.

  Cayne flipped the Bound over his shoulder, and she ran as fast as she could, past a row of busses and out of the parking lot, onto the sliver of grass between it and the street. How far did she need to run before Cayne was safe? How far before she was?

  The aftermath of the Bound’s museum massacre sprang up around her. People were still screaming. Emergency sirens were wailing. In her mind, Julia tasted smoke.

  She aimed for the crowd that was filling the Mall, hoping to disappear in numbers, but several of the people she was running toward pointed at something behind her and shrieked.

  Julia felt a body’s heat a second before something grabbed her leg. She fell face first into the scratchy grass, narrowly avoiding a Nephilim’s blade. He flew toward the crowd and the people scattered, screaming. He landed in the grass facing Julia and charged. She rolled to the right to avoid his second swing.

  His third was too fast. She felt her skin tear, and her hands fumbled for her stomach, where warm blood dripped onto her jeans. By the time she realized the wound wasn’t deep, the Nephilim had his sword over his head. Julia whispered an apology to Cayne and closed her eyes.

  Gunfire erupted behind her, and Julia’s eyes popped open. Dozens of bullets ripped into the Nephilim’s chest. His white shirt became red and his pretty face went slack and his stark white feathers began to fall in bundles.

  Julia spun around. Five armed people in gray uniforms stood beside a van. A sixth clutched a sword and wore a red patch on his arm. He was familiar, though she couldn’t quite place him. His mahogany hair was close-cropped, his eyes were dark, and he seemed about her age. Maybe a couple of years older. Kind of cute, said a laughing voice from her memory. He rushed past her, moving faster than a human should, and drove his sword through the half-demon’s heart.

  The Nephilim jerked once and then stilled. Julia wobbled to her feet, and her savoir extended his hand. “I’m Nathan. Are you okay?” His smile was pleasant, and Julia got the sense that he wanted her to smile back.

  She didn’t. “I’m okay, but I need to find my friend.” She hurried back past the busses, and Nathan ran to catch up.

  “Slow down.” Julia felt a burst of compulsion at the sound of his voice; she ignored it.

  “Cayne!” she called. She circled the back side of the museum, glancing frantically from bushes to bike racks to newspaper stands, but he was nowhere to be seen. She rounded on Nathan, who was still following her. Something about his face made her feel sick.