BloodMarked (The Fraktioneers Book 1)

by Lu J Whitley

  The thought escaped her mind on a jolt as her mother's corpse bowed up off the tile, the joints twisting at unnatural angles. The mouth opened and closed like a fish trying to breathe on land.

  Both Greta and the nightmare man, hopped sideways, trying to avoid the strike of flailing limbs. “Mama,” she screamed, her throat raw and aching. “Mama!” She tried to get in closer to still her mother's violent spasms, but a second roar of gunfire shook the kitchen, stopping her useless ministrations. The concussive sound was so close, she went half deaf. She couldn’t hear her own screams anymore, but it didn't stop the breath from rushing up from her chest and past her strained vocal chords.

  Her mother’s body went still. Silent. Her eyes locked in a horrific yellow stare.

  Greta let out a sob between broken screams. Her body, too, seemed to lose all of its will to move, and like some damsel in a flowery romance novel, she fainted.

  ★ ★ ★

  Ragnarsson felt like an ass, blazing through the darkened streets carrying a struggling Greta in his arms. The fainting had nearly done him in, and he was afraid to put her down and risk another swoon. She’d been out a few minutes, lying there on the kitchen floor, still holding what was left of her mother’s deflating corpse.

  If he would've had time to be worried, he would’ve been. Instead, he’d taken the opportunity to do a little clean up, knowing she would soon come around on her own, and seeing a big stranger hovering over her like some concerned mother hen wasn't going to help the transition any. He’d given her all the time he could, letting her sit long enough for the haze to wear off. But he knew they couldn’t stay. Probably shouldn't have stayed for as long as they had.

  He knew he'd have no more problems from the Taker contingent. He'd put them out of commission for at least a day or two, but that wasn't his only problem. He’d heard the distant police sirens wending their way toward the house. It would probably be the excitement of the century for those small town cops. Five corpses, full of bullet holes and nothing else. When a Taker evacuated their skin sack, they left just that: a loose envelope of skin that looked like a deflated balloon. Only a hell of a lot more disturbing.

  They’d no doubt find his fingerprints, but that wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t like they’d find him in any database. Maybe the heraldry of his birth on some forgotten scroll in a museum archive, but he doubted it. His people weren’t really known for their literary prowess, and if he had been included at one time, he’d undoubtedly been struck from the record centuries ago. No one wanted a monster swinging from the limbs of their family tree.

  The problem in this situation was Greta. Once the local cops had seen the state of the house, they’d assume one of two things: 1. she was responsible for the carnage, or 2. she'd been kidnapped from the scene. Either way, it wouldn't be long before her face was broadcast across every news outlet in the Midwest, possibly the country. They had to get off the grid. Fast.

  Greta’s struggles became so violent he had to slow his pace or risk dropping her. “Take me back,” she cried. He knew from the past half-hour’s worth of experience this would soon be followed by “Put me down” and “You shot my Mama.” She’d been bombarding him with pleas and threats and accusations since he'd hauled her off the floor of the kitchen and beat a hasty retreat.

  She was angry. She was in shock. He didn’t blame her one bit. She’d watched him give her mother a double tap to the head. Well, her mother’s body, at least. Any trace of the real Hannah Brandt had been long gone by the time she’d been introduced to his custom Beretta.

  “Put me down,” Greta wailed.

  “I can’t,” he grumbled, and he really couldn’t. Nor did he want to. In his arms, she was safe and warm. So soft against the hard muscles of his chest as it surged in and out to the rhythm of his rapid breaths. He tried to clear his mind and block out the way his traitorous body was reacting to her. To the feel of all of her curves curled against him. Even if she was squirming and punching and kicking to get free.

  Yeah. He was an ass.

  At the one hour mark, he finally felt like he’d put enough distance between them and the Takers to slow to a normal human pace. He could run more than twice the speed of the fastest sprint runner and for at least twice as long as the average marathoner. Not to brag. But it’d been at least a day since he’d last eaten, and carrying Greta’s extra weight – not that he’d minded in the least – had sapped his energy stores. At this point, he was running on fumes. Even superheroes had to eat.

  “Greta,” he whispered. She’d finally quit fighting and settled, and he was loathe to wake her up. But he didn’t want her to go into too deep of sleep until he knew she was alright. Shock could do messy things to people, and to say she’d had a shock was a bit of an understatement. Seeing your mother fall down dead, that was a shock. Learning all your nightmare monsters were real, and in your kitchen trying to kill you, that was a shock. Seeing your mother's body taken over by said monsters and then watching a complete stranger take her down like a rabid dog... He didn't know what that was, but it couldn't be good for the psyche.

  When Greta didn’t stir, he tried again, nudging her with his chin as he whispered her name.

  “Hmm?”

  Shit. The sound of that sleep-filled voice had his knees trembling for reasons that had nothing to do with exhaustion. She stretched like a cat in the sun, and he stood. Stock. Still. Enjoying the sensation.

  She raised her head and stared at him, as if she had no idea where she was or why she was in his arms. Those electric violet eyes bored into him, and he let himself stare right back for a few seconds before clearing his throat awkwardly and looking away. “Are you okay,” he asked, though he knew she wasn’t outwardly injured, other than a few scrapes and bruises she’d earned at the hands of that big fucker. He’d wanted to get his hands on that Taker and show him exactly what happened to men that touched his woman. Women. Wards. Shit, whatever they were.

  He was slightly worried that Greta might’ve suffered a concussion either when the big fella had knocked her into the wall or when she’d tried to brain herself – twice - on his thick skull. Ragnarsson’s lip quirked in a half smile which he quickly covered with a fake cough. He couldn’t help but admire the little spitfire. She might’ve gone down, but she went down swinging.

  “I… I think so.” She hesitated, still staring at him, though he tried to look anywhere but directly at her or into that hypnotic lavender gaze. “Um.” She started squirming again. “Do you think you could put me down now?”

  He blew out a ragged sigh and slowed to a stop. “I’ll put you down, but you have to promise that You. Will. Not. Try. To. Run.” He was looking straight into those eyes now. The lavender orbs gave no sign that she either understood or agreed, so he pushed the issue. “No running, okay?”

  She nodded her head in assent, and he slowly lowered her to the ground, making sure she was steady on her feet before he fully released her. She took a step back, retreating from the circle of his arms. But he held them there for a long second, reaching out for her, and feeling like an idiot because he couldn’t seem to make his body obey.

  She shot him a puzzled look. As if she might be trying to figure him out. Or sizing him up to see if she could take him on.

  “Fuck!” Door #2 apparently. The little fiend kicked him in the balls before he had a chance to brace for impact. Even with the strength of ten men at his disposal, one swift shot to his man parts was enough to drop him to his knees and put him down for the count. So much for those damn cat-like reflexes. With a few deep, measured breaths, he was able to stave off enough agony to rise up on his forearms and push to a sit. His eyes scanned the darkness, easily making out her form against the backdrop of the autumn night. Running full-pelt in the opposite direction.

  He chuckled to himself, and then winced at the movement. She certainly wasn't going to make this easy for him. He had to admit, in some perverse way, he liked that.

  Want. The beast inside his skull rumb
led its approval.

  He braced himself with his hands and rose from the ground, his sore groin protesting every movement. Ragnarsson turned himself over to his instincts, letting the prowling beast inside his head stretch to the end of its short leash. It'd been raring to be let out since he’d gotten on the train and started out on this whole horrid misadventure, and he was too tired to keep it under wraps any longer.

  The red haze took over his vision as he set his sights on Greta. She was still running. He didn’t know why. It was pitch black this far out past the street lights of town, and soon, she wouldn’t be able to see her hands in front of her face. He let out a throaty laugh, the sound more animal than human. Didn’t she know a chase made it more fun?

  ★ ★ ★

  Greta was bone tired, running on pure adrenaline. And that well was drying up quickly. Her muscles labored for each step, but she kept running anyway. She was used to endurance running. Practiced it daily, in fact. And her mother thought rugby was a useless sport.

  Christ. Mama. Greta faltered a step. A sharp pain twisted her insides at the thought of her mother, broken and bleeding on the kitchen floor. She shook her head. Putting one foot in front of the other. She couldn’t think about that, not now she was running for her life from the guy who’d put her mother down like a wounded animal. Put her out of her misery.

  So maybe it hadn't been in cold blood. But shot. Shot was accurate. He’d shot her Mama straight through the brain. Or, at least, he’d shot the thing that was inhabiting her mother. It hadn't really been her mother in there. She knew that. But how did he know that? And why was he even in her house in the first place?

  He was obviously a trained killer. No one could have made that first shot - not without taking Greta down with the same bullet - if he hadn’t had a hell of a lot of practice. What had she done, or what had her mother done, for that matter, that warranted someone sending an assassin to their door? This wasn't a mob movie. This was real life. Did people take out hits in real life?

  Greta stumbled to a halt as she got caught up in all the confused questions swirling around in her head. She started feeling dizzy. Head spinning. The world seemed to tilt on its axis as she went to one knee in the mud. The last vestiges of her resolve dried up on a ragged exhalation. She couldn't take another step, so she plunked her tired ass down on the cold, wet ground and waited.

  She didn’t have to wait long. Had he been right on her heels the whole time? He could’ve caught her whenever he'd felt like it. Why hadn't he? She felt him before she ever heard him. The man gave off heat like a furnace, and she had to fight the urge to turn around and curl into that warmth. She was so damned cold.

  He started to circle her, not touching her, but she tensed anyway. Preparing to be slapped or punched. At the very least roughed up a little. He didn’t seem like the sort who would take lightly to being punted in the nuts by the chick he’d just schlepped over half the county. If she’d have been in his shoes, she would've been kicking her own ass right about now.

  What she never expected was to have his strong hands wrapping tenderly around her shoulders as he knelt down in front of her. Long fingers flitted over her neck and scalp. He gently pushed back some rogue strands of spiky, black hair that were glued to her forehead with sweat. His other hand slid down her arm, to her wrist, and took her pulse. She could’ve told him it was racing. Both from the exertion and from his touch.

  “Are you feeling okay,” he asked, as if he was genuinely concerned for her. She glanced up, expecting those glowing red eyes to be staring back at her. But she was greeted by gorgeous pale icy blues. The questioning look she saw there was honest. Caring.

  “No,” she exhaled on a half sob. Which became a full sob. Which turned into an all-out, red-eyed, ugly cry. Well, shit. Greta sat there, huddled in on herself, shivering in the cold mud, and let it come out - snot and all.

  The man in front of her gave her a puzzled once over, checking for physical trauma. She wished there was some, so she could shrug off this display. Christ, she ate pain for breakfast, but this was like nothing she’d ever felt before. It was like carving her heart out with a rusty Spork.

  “Gods.” The big man rumbled deep in his chest. He let out her name on a pained breath and pulled her into his arms.

  She planned to fight him. Even pummeled his chest with her fists for a few seconds to let him know she meant business. But he ignored her protests, and she was glad. She was so exhausted, and he was so, so warm. She snuggled in closer, pressing her nose to his neck and breathing him in, the scent of musk and man filling her sinuses. He tensed, the muscles in his broad chest ticking under her fingertips.

  “Sorry.” She must’ve crossed some unspoken boundary in assassin cuddling etiquette, but when she went to lean back, he grasped the back of her head and pulled her back in, running his fingers through the short hair at the nape of her neck. It felt so good she could’ve purred. Might have.

  It hadn’t escaped her that an hour or so ago, she’d watched this man put a few well-placed bullets through her mother’s brain. But she was a logical girl. She knew he’d been somehow protecting her, even if it was just because she was the only actual human left in that house of horrors. He hadn’t put a bullet through her brain yet, though he’d had plenty of opportunities and no lack for motive. Instead, he’d been, well… helpful, if nothing else. And not entirely threatening. So for that moment, she accepted the fact that she wasn’t in any immediate danger, and she folded into his embrace. Clinging to him like he was the last life vest on a sinking ship.

  He didn’t seem to mind her wracking sobs, or her snotty nose. Even though she’d crushed herself into him so tightly that tears were no doubt soaking through his soft, black T-shirt. She couldn’t help it. He felt so strong and male and warm. One hand buried in her hair, he rubbed soothing strokes down her back with the other. Just like her Papa had done when she’d cried over a skinned knee. So she sat in the mud, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek as she let the world go blessedly black around her.

  ★Chapter 3

  Warm sunshine on her face as she woke up had Greta stretching like a contented cat. Her head was aching. Her muscles, stiff and sore. But she felt… She felt amazing, like she’d had the best sleep of her life. She’d been completely undisturbed by the nightmares that normally kept her from getting the full eight hours of shut-eye her body so desperately needed.

  Christ, those nightmares. It’d been two months until her sixth birthday when her entire world had gone to Hell in a hand-basket. Living in a small German town, her parents had thought they’d taken every precaution. Greta never went to the doctor. She went to school in her living room. She rarely ever left the house. Mama and Papa were her only friends.

  Papa’s job involved some very dangerous people, they had told her. It was always understood that one day someone would come for him and his family. Greta barely understood it then, and she really didn’t understand it any more now that she was grown. When she’d asked about the events of that night, her mother had told her not to speak about it. And when she brought up those yellow-eyed demons that haunted her night after night, Mama had had few answers, other than Greta had imagined it. It was shock, her mother had said. She’d been bitten by one of the bad men. Lost a lot of blood.

  But why would a grown man bite her? Hell, why go after her at all? Those men had killed her Papa that night. Problem solved. What damage could a five-year-old do?

  Greta rolled across the bed, a sudden tightness in her bladder telling her she had to get up. Soon. But not just yet. She stretched again, opening her eyes. For a long moment, she stared at the unfamiliar, stained popcorn ceiling. Some 70s leftover that was no doubt held together by little more than second-hand cigarette tar.

  The sinking feeling snuck up on her slowly, filling in the edges and then washing over her, covering her in a thin sheen of cold sweat. Where the hell was she?

  She stilled. Quieted. Listening to the room around her. A defun
ct AC unit was wheezing away in the corner window, but other than that, nothing. She was alone.

  Sitting up and pulling the covers along with her, Greta took a quick inventory of her surroundings. She was in what had to be a motel room. Uck. And a shitty one. The shag carpet was riddled with unidentifiable stains. The bed itself seemed clean, but she got the creepy-crawlies just the same.

  Oh Christ! Bed? How drunk was she last night? The other side of the double bed was still made up, the acid-orange chenille straight as a pin. She felt around, looking for clues. There was no warm spot, other than the one she was currently making. The other pillow was unrumpled. Or as unrumpled as it’d ever been.

  Nothing too bad could’ve happened. Right? She was still wearing her sports bra and panties. Shit, who had seen her in those panties? A wave of embarrassment flooded through her, followed quickly by a tide of anger. What kind of guy stripped you to your underwear and then left you in a reject room from ‘Hotel Hell?’ Not Gordon Ramsay. No, sir. He’d at least have the decency to cook a girl breakfast before he left!

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sprung to her feet, grimacing at the way the sticky, brown carpet clung to her feet. Okay, no more one night stands with guys that can’t at least afford a decent hotel room.

  She looked down at herself, and she really was a sight. Maybe Romeo had taken one look at those granny panties and run for the hills. But, hey, it could’ve been worse. At least she’d taken the time to shave her legs night before last.

  ”Jackass,” she mumbled under her breath, not really caring that the unknown idiot wasn't around to receive the insult. He still deserved it. She stomped her foot for emphasis, and suddenly remembered the undeniable call of nature. With a last harrumph, she stalked off in the direction of the bathroom.

  As she rounded the foot board, soft material brushed against her leg, a sharp contrast from the stiff chenille coverlet. “What…?” A T-shirt. She picked it up and shrugged into it, hoping to God, she hadn’t picked up one of those skinny band boys who only wore teenage girls’ clothes. Not happening. The thing hung to her knees. Black and soft. Well worn. And it smelled intoxicating. Man, Greta, you done gooood.