BloodMarked (The Fraktioneers Book 1)

by Lu J Whitley

  “Fuck!” She barreled down the hallway and pounded on the bathroom door. “Jami! Jami!” He didn’t answer. “Shit.” How was she supposed to know? One little picture on the third page of a podunk hometown newspaper. She’d been so proud, seeing her and Jen’s smiling faces staring out of the newsprint at her. “Oh my God, Jen! Jami!” The heel of her hand stung from battering it against the heavy wood door. What the hell was he doing in there?

  Greta paced back and forth down the hallway. To her bedroom. To the living room, where a small black rectangle was sitting on the coffee table, just begging for her. She grabbed up the cell without a second thought, punching up Jen’s number from memory. “Pick up. Pick up.”

  ★ ★ ★

  Jami scrubbed the soft towel over his scalp, droplets of water still shaking from the ends of his short hair. It tickled at his shoulders. His chin. But he didn’t have time to worry about it. He pulled a fresh pair of cargos over his feet, the fabric snagging against his soaking wet legs on the way up. “Greta!” What the hell was going on? “Greta!” Gun in hand, he rushed from the room. Arms extended and at the ready. “Greta!”

  “Don’t go home,” she yelled, “It’s not safe.”

  “What the...” As he turned the corner in the living room, he saw her standing, his cell phone pressed to her ear and an expression of poor horror and guilt written across her face. Oh Gods!

  She dropped the phone like a hot potato. “I had to warn her.”

  “Warn who?” He grabbed up the black rectangle and thumbed the recent contacts list. It was a phone number he didn’t recognize, but he knew the area code well enough. “Who did you call, Greta?” She covered her face with her hands, like she thought he might give her a good slap. He just might. What the hell was she thinking? “Who. Did. You. Call?”

  “Jen. I had... To warn her. She... Was in... The picture.” Her breathing skipped a few beats, wracked with sobs.

  “Calm down,” he cooed, taking her hands in his and pulling them away from her eyes. “Who’s Jen? What picture?”

  “The picture... In... The... Paper.”

  “Okay. So that’s how they found you?” She nodded, but he hadn’t really needed an answer. If there was a picture of Greta Brandt circulating around on a newspaper’s website, even a small one, he knew the Takers had the resources to find her. “Who’s Jen?”

  “She’s my best friend. We have to help her. If anything happened to her... Oh God!”

  “It’ll be okay, Greta. But who is she? What’s her last name?” Jami already had his thumb on the dial command. Deacon didn’t have to know, and Stein owed him one. “What’s her last name?” He put the phone to his ear and pressed ‘Call.’

  “Jen Collum. You have to...”

  “Wait...Collum? As in the Collums that own this cottage?” Fuck! He threw the phone at his satchel, not giving a rats if Stein was cursing him on the other end of the line. He grabbed the strap of the bag and threw it over his bare shoulder. “We need to go. Now.”

  “But...” She whimpered as he grabbed her by the upper arm a little harder than he’d meant to. She’d have bruises. He’d care about it tomorrow. If they were still alive. “What about... Jen?”

  “I don’t give a shit about Jen right now. We have to get out of here.”

  She dug her heels into the thick hallway runner. “Well, I give a shit!” He threw her over his shoulder, fireman style, without even missing a step. She pounded her fists against his lower back. “Put me down, you bastard!”

  “Can’t,” he grunted, taking a shot to the kidneys. “We have to go.”

  “I get it! I get it! Just put me down!”

  He planted her on the floor next to the huge four-poster they’d shared the night before. “You have two minutes.”

  “But... Jen!” She crossed her arms over her chest and parked her ass on the down covered mattress. “You have to save her.”

  “Raaugh! Fine. But MOVE!”

  She hopped to her feet the instant he had the phone back in his hand. “Jaromir! What the fuck is going on?” Stein’s muffled voice gritted through the speakers.

  “Stein. Burner’s been compromised. Track the last number dialed. Jen Collum. Bring her in.”

  “What the hell’s...?”

  “I said, BRING. HER. IN!” The other man grew silent on the other end of the line. “I’ll see you when I see you.” He disconnected the call and threw Greta an ‘Are you satisfied?’ look.

  She nodded and threw her duffel over an arm. At least she understood the concept of speed. “Thank you.”

  “Come on.” He led her through the small house, field knife clutched between his teeth, pulling his boots over his feet on the way to the back door. He motioned for Greta to stay behind him, which she thankfully complied with. He didn’t have time for attitude. “Let’s go.” Knife gripped firmly in his right hand, he tossed the burner cell out into the surrounding forest with his left. Have fun tracking that, you bastards!

  “Where are we going?”

  She rearranged that damn duffel on her shoulder. Gods, he needed to get her a new bag. “Away.”

  She nodded and followed him to a trail he’d found when he’d done his perimeter check the night before. It led to the lake and back to the sleepy town. He hoped she was ready for a hike. It was at least ten miles, probably more, because they had to circle half way around the beach before they picked up the trail again on the other side.

  Though, he’d happily carry her the entire way if necessary. Shit! He tried to block out the thought of her curves pressed up against him. All that softness and warmth in his arms. His traitorous cock twitched against his cargos. He already regretted going commando today, his pants chafing against his still wet skin. Now, it was fucking torture. He reached down and adjusted himself, hoping Greta didn’t catch the quick action.

  “Who did you send for her?” She suddenly whisper-shouted behind him, making him jump out of his skin.

  “She’ll be fine.” Hopefully, he silently amended. Stein could be more than a little bit frightening, and sending him after a woman... Well, it probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, but there was no one he trusted more. He’d keep Greta’s friend safe, no questions asked. “I trust Stein with my life.”

  He could almost feel the wheels working in her mind. The words falling to the tip of her tongue. “Who’s Stein?”

  He turned abruptly, making her crash into his chest as she missed a step. He shivered on contact. The electric feel of her skin shocking him down to the bone. He did his best to block the sensation, getting his face down near to hers so he could whisper, dragging the hot scent of her into his lungs. “Stein is a friend. Maybe if you’re quiet for the rest of this hike, you’ll get to meet him one day. And see your friend again.”

  She turned her head so they were face to face. Her lips just inches away from his. “What if I’m not quiet?”

  “I’ll have to make you.”

  “Is that a threat?” He felt her arousal burning through her blood. His blood. That damn connection was going to be the death of him.

  He moved in closer, only a fraction of a breath separating them. “What would you do if it was?” Stupid! Run, he tried to tell himself, get out of there. But his fucking body wouldn’t seem to obey.

  She chuckled and pulled away, severing the contact. “I’d kick your ass.”

  “In your dreams.” He turned and began moving away through the thick underbrush. The rustling of leaves behind him was the only indication she was still with him, but over the crackle of twigs and the shuffle of ill-placed foot falls, he could have sworn she’d muttered the word “Maybe.” And he couldn’t help the ridiculous grin that split his face. He was in deep shit.

  ★Chapter 8

  Greta’s teeth felt like they were covered with fur. Uck. She opened her eyes slowly. Pulsing light from passing street lamps crept in around her lashes, making her abused corneas burn. Another back road, black except for a steady parade of towering lights, s
et at even intervals so they were never in the dark for long. Where were they now? When she’d finally settled into a restless sleep, they were somewhere around Syracuse. On the outskirts, but she’d seen the pale light of the city shining to the west.

  She sat up with a groan, stretching her arms wide. Her ass hurt to the point of near numbness. Pins and needles shot down the back of her thighs as she changed positions in the constricting bucket seats. Her knees crunched against the dashboard.

  The transit van hadn’t been her first choice of vehicle. Hell, it wasn’t even her second. Third. Fourth. Or any choice of vehicle. It smelled like the previous owner had used it as a urinal for twenty years before he’d decided to trade up. And the seats. Christ. The springs were worn through at points, making her feel like she’d just had a five hour session with a drunk acupuncturist.

  It only had, as far as she could tell, two redeeming qualities: 1. the owner, Dwayne, had been willing to meet them in the middle of the night, accept cash, and not ask any unnecessary questions. 2. The windowless ‘rape’ compartment in the back kept poor Yums from being flambéed by rogue slivers of sunlight, so they could travel during the day.

  She’d joked about getting him a good old fashioned coffin to sleep in. A sensible suggestion, but he hadn’t taken it well. Damn. Let him be upset. She sure as hell was. She’d hoped sleep would calm her frayed nerves, but it'd only seemed to make things worse. She’d spent most of the last twenty-four hours cooped up in this devil-wagon. They’d slept in shifts, with her driving during the day and Jami taking over after sunset.

  Her silent companion. He’d spoken only when absolutely necessary, and even then, only in simple superficial sentences. She’d turned into a whiny two-year-old somewhere around fourteen hours in. Bombarding him with questions he either didn’t know the answer to or didn’t care to answer. Apparently, once they were on the road, communication wasn't necessary. Safety was necessary. Keeping on the move was necessary.

  He wouldn't tell her where they were going. Wouldn't tell her anything about Jen. Wouldn't deign to comment on the fact that she'd fallen asleep next to him in that bed. That they'd been standing in the woods - when they were supposed to be running for their lives - and he'd been hard as a steel pipe. And he'd wanted to kiss her again. He'd wanted her.

  Then they'd gotten in this godforsaken van, and suddenly, he'd gone from Jami to Ragnarsson. From hot-blooded man to emotionless agent, like she'd tripped the bastard switch or something.

  She knew she shouldn’t be getting all up in arms about it. Knew she was overreacting. But as she glanced over at him, his eyes staring straight ahead, hands resting lightly on the cracked leather steering wheel, she remembered how those hands had felt when they'd kissed. Hot and insistent, caressing her into a frenzy. She got wet just thinking about it.

  At times, she’d catch him looking at her with those beautiful blues, staring at her in a way that made her think dirty, dirty thoughts. And he’d smile like he knew exactly what she was thinking. And he liked it. The man sure did know how to get his signals crossed. She blew out a frustrated hiss. Men.

  “Sleep well,” he asked, startling her to attention.

  “I... Uh… Yeah. Good… I mean. Fine.” Smooth.

  “Good.”

  “Well, as well as I can in these damn seats.” Complaining might not exactly be the best foot in the door, but she felt like she had to find a way to keep him talking.

  “Oh,” he chuckled. Okay, who are you and what have you done with Jami. “You could go sleep in the back, you know. It’s not great, but there’s more room to stretch out.”

  “I’m fine.” She huffed out a breath. She wasn’t going anywhere near that tiny black box cargo compartment. Greta didn’t do small spaces well. Never had. Her father, in his infinite paternal wisdom, had tried to train the claustrophobia out of her so she wouldn’t panic in tough situations. For fifteen minutes a day, she’d had what he referred to as ‘immersion therapy.’ Which consisted of being locked in a dark hall closet, alone with her thoughts. Looking back now, she was starting to question her father’s tactics. Seriously. Who did that to a five-year-old?

  A whisper of a touch. Jami’s hand sliding lightly down her arm had her jumping back and smacking her elbow on the passenger side window. Cracking herself squarely in the funny bone. So not funny. She rubbed at it as she stared, open mouthed, in his direction.

  “Where did you go?”

  “What?”

  “I was talking to you. You zoned out.” He withdrew his hand slowly, as if he wanted to keep it there. Keep touching her. She wanted to grab on to it and not let go. He reached up to his neck and began massaging out a kink, bending his head at an awkward angle to get to the offending tendons. She thought about offering to do it for him. Anything to get her hands on him. Feel the heat of him against her fingertips. Her lips. Her thighs. Her big friggin’ toe. Anything. “There you go again.”

  “I… uh… guess I’m still tired,” she stammered, hoping her eyes wouldn’t betray her actual train of thoughts. “The past few days’ve been a little overwhelming.”

  “I can understand that.” He was staring at her like she was a puzzle he just couldn’t piece together.

  “Um. You wanna watch the road there?” She met his gaze for a second before he looked away, and she could’ve sworn she saw desire in his eyes. His pupils dilated. Nostrils flaring. Then it was gone. Maybe she’d misinterpreted. Was he smelling her? Did she stink? While he was checking his blind spot to change lanes, she did a surreptitious pit sniff. Not great, but not horrible. She’d give her left arm for a hot shower. Paper towel baths in seedy gas station restrooms weren’t cutting it. And if said shower was built for two... Ugh. She ran her hands down her face and scrunched down in her seat.

  She’d made her peace with it over the past twenty-four hours. She wanted him. Plain. Simple. He was gorgeous and dangerous, and all the things she swore she never looked for in a man. But when he’d kissed her, it was like something in her blood had come to life. Sung for him. Burned for him. And then he'd laid with her while she'd fallen asleep, his soft voice lulling her into dreamless oblivion. She felt like they'd crossed some unseen threshold, like maybe it could be more than just a one time thing.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever. She'd lost her mind back at the cottage, but now she'd had a little distance from the situation, she saw she couldn’t risk it. If her blood… If being with her harmed him in any way, she’d never forgive herself.

  Didn’t mean she could stop thinking about it, though. Dreaming about it. It was like he’d hypnotized her somehow. Just looking at him made her pulse spike. Her knees went weak. And she’d had to change her panties more times in the past twenty-four hours than she normally did in a week, her traitorous body keeping her wet and ready for him should he decide to change his mind.

  Jami whipped the van hard to the right, vaulting it over a grass verge, and zooming up an exit ramp.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to keep from biting her tongue as they bounced over terrain this van clearly wasn’t built for.

  “I need to get out,” he growled, a thin crimson glow forming around his irises. Fangs, already descended, peeked from between his lips as he spoke. He noticed her shocked gaze and turned himself, positioning his shoulder so she wouldn’t be able to see his face clearly. “Don’t look at me.”

  She was on full alert. Red eyes and fangs must mean danger, right? “What’s wrong?” She looked all around, seeing nothing but a sleepy little town whizzing by outside her window. He pulled to the side of the road and leaped out so fast, she had to scramble to wedge the van into park before it rolled half-way to Canada. What the hell? She popped her door open - rusty metal grinding together - and slid her numb feet to the ground. She circled to the driver’s side. Where she found him, crouched down in a berm of high, brittle grass, holding his head in his hands.

  “Stop,” he uttered in a voice she’d never heard him use. It was
feral. Like a wounded animal. Or a starving one.

  She crouched down to his level. The grass broke around her, tickling her bare wrists as she reached out for him. “Jami…”

  “Please. Just stop.”

  Her hands froze midair. “Stop what?” Christ, what had she done now?

  “Do you think I don’t know,” he whispered, the sound hissing past his fangs.

  She couldn’t hide the frustration in her voice. It was cold. She was exhausted. And now he was throwing a hissy fit on the side of a vacant highway at four o’clock in the morning. “Know what, exactly?”

  “I can smell it on you. Hour after hour. When you’re awake. When you’re asleep.” He raised his head and glared at her with those blood-hued eyes. “I’m trapped in a goddamn box with that delicious fucking smell of yours!”

  “My… wait… what?” Delicious?

  Without warning, he lunged at her. Arms swiping with fingers tipped in extended claws. Mouth agape, and fangs at the ready. He narrowly missed - just grazed her chest - but the force behind the blow had her teetering on unsteady legs. She fell backward and quickly crab-walked away a few paces before she realized he wasn’t in pursuit. He was right where he had been, muscles tensed and quivering as if he was holding himself back. And as she watched in horror, his body seemed to give out on him. He dropped like a stone, falling flat on his back. Blades of dried grass snapped around him as he went, a puff of dust and gravel signaling his rough landing.

  Greta couldn’t move, stuck to the spot with shock. “Jami? Are you… Are you okay?” No answer. Nor was there any when she got the strength to try a second time. She rushed to him, repeating his name. “Jami?” She shook him. Poked him. Pinched him. Considered slapping him across the face (that’s what they did in the movies, right?), but couldn’t bring herself to do it. He didn’t move, and he wasn’t breathing. Did he breathe? Shit, she didn’t know. Her fingers sought the thick artery at the base of his neck. There was a pulse beating steadily away, if not a little fast. But he seemed so cold. Icy. He’d always felt so hot before, like a furnace.