“I dunno, man!” Some of Roark’s fury seemed to have penetrated the male’s drugged haze because his blood-shot eyes went wide and frightened.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Roark demanded, shaking him until his teeth clicked together like dice rattling in a cup. “You took her!”
“I know, I know—but I only took her where he said to,” the male babbled, his face turning white. “And then I deleted the instructions, just like he said!”
“Just like who said?” Roark roared, shaking him again. “Who told you to take her? Who has my Samantha?”
“Don’t know his name!” the male protested. “I just met him outside of class one day. He said he wanted someone to give Professor Grey a ride to his place sometime soon. He offered me a hundred bucks to do it so I figured…” he shrugged. “What the hell, ya know?”
“So he offered you a hundred Earth dollars to kidnap a female—the female I love—and you accepted?” Roark felt sick. Had Samantha really been sold for so little?
“It wasn’t kidnapping exactly…” The male looked uncomfortable. “I mean, I never woulda forced her into the car—she came with me on her own, ya know?”
“Because you tricked her, no doubt,” Roark growled. “You probably told her you’d drive her to her female relative’s house—to her Aunt Vicky.”
The guilty look on the human male’s face told him he was right.
“Aww, c’mon, man,” he protested. “He told me they were old friends and he just wanted their reunion to be a surprise. What else could I do?”
“You could have refused to kidnap her and deliver her to the male who had been stalking her for months!” Roark growled. “You must have known he was lying!”
“I mean, I dunno…” The male shrugged again, his bloodshot eyes shifting from side to side. “All I know is he offered me a hundred bucks and the bitch was failing me in Biology, ya know? So I figured maybe she deserved it. She gave me a twenty on my last exam. A fucking twenty. You know what that does to your grade? I mean, I had to get high for a week to even start feeling better about it!”
“You…”
Roark couldn’t even find the words. So Samantha had been sold to her stalker for a paltry sum because of resentment this male harbored towards her for a grade of all things!
“Listen to me,” he said, glaring directly into the human male’s bloodshot eyes. “You are going to tell me exactly where you took her right now or I will reach down your throat and rip out your lungs!”
The male went white and his entire body began to shake.
“But I can’t!” he mumbled in a husky whisper. “I told you, man—I deleted the instructions—just like he told me. He sent them to me on my phone and I got rid of them just as soon as I dropped her off. Almost couldn’t find my way home again!”
Roark gritted his teeth in pure frustration.
“But you drove there,” he reminded the idiotic human male. “Surely you can find the way again!”
“I dunno, man…” The male shook his head. “I mean, it was way out in the boonies, ya know? He had this kind of an old shack—it was in the middle of the woods, down this long, winding dirt road…” He shook his head. “I don’t think I could find it again even if I wasn’t completely baked.”
“Baked?” Roark demanded, shaking him again.
“You know—stoned, man! I mean, I’m really scared of you—you’re a big, scary dude and all—but I can’t help it, I got no sense of direction when I’m high.” He shrugged again, as though it was no big deal that he’d delivered Samantha to her stalker and now he couldn’t find the way back to where he’d left her.
Roark dropped him abruptly in disgust and the human male collapsed in a heap on the floor, moaning. Roark shook his head. What in the Seven Hells was he going to do? How was he supposed to find Samantha now?
She could be anywhere in a hundred-mile radius from here, he thought in despair. I can’t call her on a think-me because she’s somewhere that’s blocking the reception. And even if I could, I doubt she’d be able to tell me where she is. She was asleep when Meg called her the first time, which means she probably has no idea where she was taken.
So how was he ever going to find her?
Suddenly a warm feminine presence filled the small, dingy apartment and a delicious, fresh scent swept away the skunky, bitter odor of the drug the human male had been smoking.
“You must allow your bond to guide you, Warrior,” a commanding feminine voice said.
The male who had kidnapped Samantha looked up, his eyes wide with awe.
“Whoa,” he muttered. “Did you hear that? It’s like God, but if God was a lady, ya know?”
“Shut up,” Roark growled, though he was hardly less shocked than the human. All his life he had assumed the Goddess was nothing but a religious construct that other warriors used to make their lives seem meaningful in some way. He had pitied them their ignorance, labeling their religion as blind superstition. But now…well, he didn’t know what to think. He might have thought he was imagining it if the human male had not so obviously heard the Goddess’s voice too.
“Goddess?” he asked tentatively, just to be sure.
“Yes, Warrior?” She sounded faintly amused. “You did not believe in me until now, so I will give you a moment to gather your wits,” she went on. “But do not take too much time—your female is in grave danger and you must go to her side and protect her.”
“Yes, yes!” Roark exclaimed. “That’s exactly what I want, Goddess! But I don’t know how to find her!”
“I told you, Warrior, you must use your bond. You created a partial bond with her when you gave her your seed.” She sounded stern as she said it, clearly she disapproved of the way Roark had given his seed surreptitiously. “I will strengthen it temporarily so that you may use it as a kind of homing device to find her.”
“I thank you, Goddess,” Roark said numbly, still feeling stunned.
“Go now!” she ordered him. “Soon it will be too late.”
Roark shook off the shocked paralysis that had gripped him and ran for the door. There would be time later to think about how his disbelief had been proved wrong and his entire worldview had changed in an instant. Right now he had to concentrate on getting to Samantha in time to save her.
He just prayed he would get to her in time.
Fifty
Sammi had looked everywhere, but she couldn’t find anything that could be used as a weapon. The basement apartment was bare.
It’s probably because he knows better than to leave anything lying around that can be used against him, whispered a dire little voice in her head.
Sammi remembered what he had said about his “other dates” and shivered. He had also talked about the expense of setting up a “hideout for dates” which led her to believe that her captor—Sonny-boy—had done this before—possibly many times. Clearly he was a pro at abducting women.
The question was, what did he do to them after he abducted them?
Sammi didn’t want to think about that. Possibly he planned to rape her and then let her go. But if that was the case, then why would he snip off a lock of her hair to keep?
That was a trophy, Sammi, whispered the dire little voice in her head. So he can re-live his time with you over and over after you’re dead and buried in the woods under a rotten log somewhere. You have to get out of here!
Yes, but how?
After searching the small apartment desperately one last time for any kind of weapon or any means of escape and trying the door—very quietly—once more, Sammi admitted to herself that she was stuck—at least for now.
She had no choice but to put on the clothes he had left her and get ready for the “date.” Otherwise Sonny-boy might get angry and she had the idea that in order to stay alive, she needed to keep her captor in a good mood for as long as possible.
The dress was skin-tight, clinging to her curves in a provocative way she hated at once and the fishnet pantyhose were hard
to get on. The shoes were sky-high—she wobbled on their skinny stiletto heels thinking she’d be lucky if she didn’t break an ankle trying to walk in them.
Once she had on the clothing, she picked up the purple cut-glass bottle of perfume. Passion it said in gold, scripted letters on the front of the bottle. Sammi sniffed it experimentally.
“Ewww!” she gasped and jerked her head back instinctively. It had a thick, powdery aroma that she associated with an older generation. It smelled like something her older aunts or grandmother might wear.
It wasn’t really a bad smell—just heavy and cloying. Sammi had been very sensitive to smells lately—just another symptom of her pregnancy that she’d overlooked because she believed Roark was actually using “fake” seed on her.
What had he used? She wondered as she put down the perfume bottle without spraying any of it on herself. Whose sperm had made the twins she was carrying? Roark had seemed so certain that he couldn’t have made her pregnant despite their recent activities. Or maybe his anger and denial had been an act and he just wanted to get rid of her once she was inconveniently knocked up?
But if there was one thing she knew about Roark—or thought she knew—it was that he was not given to dramatics. He was blunt and to the point and despised any kind of hyperbole. So if he had been acting when he denied being the one to make her pregnant, it would have been very out of character for him.
But what do you really know about his character, anyway? whispered the little voice in her head. You haven’t even known him three months yet, Sammi. Maybe he’s just a jerk who gets off on impregnating women and then abandoning them.
Which was very unlike a Kindred. They were supposed to be extremely loyal and monogamous to a fault. It was one reason the women she knew who were mated to Kindred loved being with them.
“I never ever have to worry about my Berik cheating on me,” Meg had told her, rather smugly. “Because of our bond—we can feel each other’s emotions so I know he’s even more in love with me now than he was when we first got married.”
At the time, Sammi had wished she could have a bond like that with a man. Then she had stupidly fallen in love with Roark and decided she didn’t need the bond to be happy. She would have taken him even though he couldn’t form the deep soul-connection that the Kindred seemed to think was so important for a happy marriage.
“But instead of even trying to bond with me, he kicked me out,” she whispered to herself and felt hot tears stinging her eyes. “And accused me of cheating on him! How could he think that? I would never…ever…”
She put her head in her hands and sobbed, unable to finish the sentence aloud.
Oh, Roark—I would never have cheated on you. I loved you! Why couldn’t you just return that love instead of throwing it back in my face? Why did you—
The creak of the door at the top of the stairs opening made her jump and brought her back to herself. Sammi suddenly remembered she had much more than a broken heart to worry about. Hastily, she wiped at her tears, blotting her eyes on the sleeves of the silky, too-tight red dress.
“Oh, Beautiful,” she heard her captor calling. “Come on out now—it’s time for the dinner part of our date and I made your favorite!”
“O—okay, Sonny-boy,” Sammi somehow managed to call back. Looking around, she realized that she didn’t want him to catch her in the bedroom again. It was definitely the one place she wanted to stay out of, if possible.
Heart pounding and palms clammy, she stood on shaking legs and wobbled out to greet him to play along with his weird scenario.
There was nothing else she could do.
Fifty-One
As he drove, Roark opened himself as much as possible to the partial bond the Goddess had strengthened for him and enabled him to use as a tracking device. He realized now that it was this bond which had allowed him to feel the danger Samantha was in—and probably also what had allowed his seed to take hold in her belly.
He only wished it was strong enough for him to communicate with her. Periodically he tried sending her thoughts, as he knew other mated and bonded couples did, but so far he didn’t sense that any of them were getting through. Maybe once he got closer to her location, it might be possible to speak to her through the temporarily strengthened bond, but for now he had to be content with just feeling her emotions, which were guiding him towards her.
The primary emotion he felt was fear. Clearly Samantha was in desperate trouble—in terror for her life—and it was her fear that led him forward. Whenever he deviated from his course, the fear began to lessen and Roark would guide the shuttle towards it again.
He was flying instead of driving, which he knew the human authorities didn’t like, but it was so much faster than taking their slow, winding ground roads. He needed to get to Samantha as quickly as possible. Even now something awful might be happening to her…But no—he couldn’t think that way. He had to just concentrate on getting to her, Roark told himself sternly. He had to find her before it was too late.
“Hang on, darling!” he thought fiercely, sending the mental words in the direction of the fear he was feeling coming from Samantha. “Just hang on—I’m coming for you as fast as I can, I swear it!”
Fifty-Two
When she came out of the bedroom, the TV was on and an old sitcom from decades ago was playing on its faded screen. The canned laughter made Sammi’s gut clench for some reason.
Sonny-boy was waiting for her, dressed in a slightly nicer version of his earlier outfit. At least this time his dingy white t-shirt and faded black jeans were clean, Sammi thought as she took his offered arm.
“Let me escort you to dinner, Beautiful,” he said, grinning down at her. “We’re having your favorite, tonight.”
He took her into the small room set up as a dining area and sat her down.
Her “favorite” dinner appeared to consist of cold, limp spaghetti noodles, Samantha thought, staring down at the plate in front of her. But then Sonny-boy sat down across from her at the small, cheap dinette set and produced a jar of spaghetti sauce.
“It wouldn’t be spaghetti without the sauce, right, Beautiful?” he asked, grinning as he popped the top off the jar and began to pour the cold red sauce all over his pile of noodles.
The smell made Sammi want to gag. Canned or jarred spaghetti sauce was one of the things that had recently begun smelling very wrong to her. She supposed it was a pregnancy thing but as her captor dumped the second half of the jar over her own limp pile of noodles, she had to fight not to puke.
“Wow,” she murmured, swallowing hard and trying not to breathe in the scent of the sauce. “That’s, uh, perfect.”
“Not quite yet!” Sonny-boy exclaimed, grinning at her. Though he had changed his clothes and shaved and brushed his hair, he hadn’t, apparently, brushed his teeth. Sammi could still see the little speck of green between the two crooked ones at the front.
“Oh, there’s more?” Sammi asked faintly.
“Of course! I told you, we’re having your favorite—spaghetti with clam sauce!”
To Sammi’s horror, he pulled out a can of clams and popped open the metal lid. He sprinkled a few on his own plate but dumped the lion’s share onto the red-coated spaghetti noodles in front of Sammi.
The fishy smell of canned clams hit her and she had to clap a hand over her mouth and nose.
Oh God, I’m going to be sick—I know I am!
But if she puked all over the plate of cold spaghetti and clams, what was her captor’s likely reaction? Sammi couldn’t imagine he’d be happy about it. After all, this was supposed to be her “favorite” meal. She had to control herself—had to be careful.
“Are you okay, Beautiful?” Sonny-boy demanded. His words were considerate but his tone was definitely not. He was making the angry bear face again, glaring at her across the table with his bushy brows drawn low and his small black eyes squinting suspiciously at her.
“Just fine.” Sammi pulled her hand away from her mouth a
nd nose and tried to smile, though the expression felt like it might break her face. “Just…perfect,” she said and picked up the fork to start pushing the spaghetti and clams around on her plate.
It occurred to her that the fork she was holding might be used as a weapon—if the tines weren’t so short and blunt. It was almost more of a spork than a fork, which meant it wasn’t especially good at picking up the spaghetti.
This didn’t stop Sonny-boy for an instant. He twirled the long, cold strands eagerly around and around and shoved them into his mouth, chomping and slurping enthusiastically. Soon the dingy white t-shirt he was wearing was coated in little flecks of clam and sauce and so was his mouth and chin.
The sight was more than Sammi’s stomach could bear, so she looked away and concentrated on twirling her own spaghetti. Every once in a while she raised a forkful to her lips and pretended to eat it. Luckily, Sonny-boy seemed too preoccupied with his own dinner to notice she wasn’t actually eating a bite of hers.
At last he pushed back from the table and belched loudly. Grinning at her, he patted his belly.
“Now it’s time for the champagne!” he exclaimed, and pulled out another bottle.
The “champagne” turned out to be Welch’s Grape juice, much to Sammi’s relief. She didn’t want to drink anything alcoholic because it might hurt the babies.
That’s right, the babies—my girls, she thought as she watched her captor pour the dark purple juice into the tall champagne flutes. They’re the reason I have to live—have to get out of here. Whatever happens, I have to survive so I can raise my twins!
Feeling renewed determination, she raised her flute when her captor proposed a toast. Here was something else that could be a weapon, she thought, looking at the flute. Except instead of actual crystal or glass as she had first thought, it was just cheap plastic—too flimsy to hurt anyone.
Submitting to the Shadow: Kindred Tales 27 Page 18