The Bastard

by Inez Kelley

  She was finished. “Annie, call the police.”

  Her sister moved toward the house phone. Rex darted from the kitchen and plucked the phone from her hand, throwing it against the wall. It shattered, sending sharp bits of plastic shrapnel flying.

  Erik’s hands clamped on Lacy’s arms like bands of steel. “Time to leave, Lace.”

  She hit him. Balling her fist, she swung as hard as she could at his jaw. His chin flew up and a soft oof sounded, but his fingers tightened on her arm. Her head snapped back as he shook her. “I said we’re leaving.”

  Annie flung herself toward them but Rex grabbed her around the waist. “Slow down there, sweetheart.”

  She twisted and kneed him in the balls. Rex dropped her, falling to his knees. Annie tore toward the bedroom and her cell. Dray caught her inside the door. He palmed her ass, hefting her and tossing her onto the bed. He casually walked into the living room and lobbed her cell behind the couch. Bounding off the bed, Annie launched herself and landed on his back, her nails digging into his neck. Her teeth sank into his ear.

  “God, I love a biter.” Dray chuckled. He turned and slammed backward into the wall, knocking Annie from his shoulders. She crumpled to the ground.

  The icy fury on Erik’s face scared Lacy. She didn’t know this man. Preservation instinct kicked in. Her feet shot out, her hands slapped at him and she screamed the loudest scream she could. Every attention-grabbing word she could summon ripped from her lips. Fire! Rape! Help! Police!

  A hand she knew could be gentle fisted in her hair with a punishing grip. Wet fabric smelling of medicine slapped across her face. The too-sweet taste gagged her. She struggled for breath as her mind quivered in shock. Erik was drugging her.

  Her muscles went slack. In the last seconds, as her mind began to dim, Lacy locked her eyes on his and tried to relay one basic message.

  I hate you.

  Lacy slumped, a dead weight in his arms. He swung her legs up, cradling her to his chest and looked over. Rex pulled the cloth away from Annie’s face and stood. Dray was crouched over, cupping his crotch.

  “You get kicked, too?”

  Dray moaned. “No. I moved too fast. Jesus. How do those super heroes do this shit in leather pants? They’ve got to have tiny dicks. I think I pinched my nuts off.”

  “What do we do with her?” Rex motioned toward Annie.

  Curled against the wall, her eyes closed and breathing regular, Annie was fine but out cold. Vike nudged his chin toward the couch. “Put her there and let’s get out of here.”

  “She’ll call the cops,” Dray warned.

  “She can call Dateline for all I care.”

  Rex unceremoniously scooped Annie up and plopped her face down on the couch. “Bitch kicked me.”

  “You’ll live.” Vike shifted Lacy into a more comfortable position and headed for the back door. Someone was still watching, he could feel them. Danger was too close for comfort.

  Rex would live and so would he. They’d mortgaged their souls eons ago. He’d experienced mortal wounds for a thousand years yet his heart still beat. But no sleep could heal his heart as it crumbled. His eyes closed, breathing in the quiet stillness of Lacy in his arms. Her breath was warm against his neck, tinged with whiskey and the sickening sweetness of chloroform. She would hate him now, but she’d be alive. That’s what mattered.

  “We driving or Leaping?” Dray asked.

  “I’m Leaping. Don’t know how outdated that bottle was and I don’t want her waking up until I get her tied up.”

  “You’re tying her up?” Rex blinked in confusion. “Why? She can’t get out of H2Q.”

  “Yeah, but after what she did to my truck and my chin, I’d rather not end up with my own knife in my throat.”

  “Okay, good point. But she’s going to be madder than a hooker with the clap.”

  Vike’s mouth twisted. “Trust me, I know all about pissed off women.”

  “I’ve got some new wrist restraints, velvet-lined leather, if you want to borrow them. I might even have a ball gag or two still in the package.” Vike and Rex stopped and stared. Dray rolled his eyes. “Shut up. You have your hobbies and I have mine. You want the shit or not?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  He watched from the shadows across the street. Zale’s lip curled. Lacy was more trouble than she was worth. Sela had forbidden them to kill her so protect her they must, but he didn’t have to like it. And Vike had to be an idiot and fall for her. He couldn’t just enjoy her in his bed and let her go. He’d given his heart and that went too far. Cold warriors had nothing to lose, nothing to live for. Their minds and focus were fixated on the goal, not distracted by leaving someone behind.

  Vike and Dray dematerialized in a blink and Rex spun the sedan’s tires on the pavement. Zale’s gaze darted up and down the quiet road. Only one Leech lurked that he could feel but it paid to be cautious. His boots made no sound on the asphalt as he crossed the street. The porch light was off and the railing sturdy enough to vault. He landed in a silent crouch, listening, waiting. No noise came from inside, not even the ceaseless drone of the TV. He peeked in the window and scowled.

  The sister lay belly down on the couch, her nightshirt bunched around her thighs, bare legs bent at an awkward angle. Dark brown hair covered her face. No blood soaked the cushions that he could see but he couldn’t tell from outside. Checking for human observers, he stood and tried the doorknob. Unlocked.

  A scuffle had occurred. The lamp was knocked over and bits of a cordless phone littered the carpet. She didn’t move as he approached but her back rose gently with her breath. The open liquor bottle and spilled glass on the end table explained why. She was drunk.

  He shook his head. Leaving her here was stupid. The fastest way to control someone was by using a loved one. Lacy’s kind, the gentle ones, were the easiest to manipulate. Why hadn’t Vike or Dray just used Annie as leverage? Lacy would have done anything they wanted to keep her precious sister safe. Or had Vike gone too soft to even use human persuasion?

  A wicked thought burned through his mind. If Lacy thought Vike had killed her sister, or even accidently caused her death, she’d run as far and as fast as she could. Vike would mend. Broken hearts never killed a soul, no matter what the poets and musicians claimed. Zale palmed his upper arm and his silver dagger filled his hand, the grip like what he imagined an old friend’s embrace was like.

  The blade scraped across his bottom lip as he thought. Should he make it obvious and slit her throat or should he go more accidental and crack her skull? Lacy was so kind-hearted she might forgive Vike if she thought it was an accident. No, obvious was best.

  He bent and smoothed the hair away from the sister’s neck. His fingertips skimmed her skin and song exploded in his blood. The sweet song of the Scion sang to him, stealing into his bones with a burn. The power stole his breath. So strong and pure.

  His eyes closed in resignation. Of course. She was also Scionim. The Third wouldn’t touch her because of her diabetes, but her blood cried out to his for protection.

  “To me,” he whispered and the dagger vanished, repainting itself on his upper arm.

  Great. His options just went to zero. Disgust fueled his muscles as he scooped the limp woman from the couch. Her breath reached his nose and he frowned. No alcohol scent but something was off. She almost smelled like… His feet slowed in surprise. Chloroform?

  An itch festered in his mind. The woman in his arms was diabetic. He vaguely remembered something about human medications affecting them differently. Although he knew more poisons than he could count, he had little cause to pay attention when the topic of conversation was medication.

  The hallway led to a single bedroom with only a mattress and several boxes. Dropping her on the mattress, he raked his eyes over her from hairline to toe looking for injuries. An obnoxious beeping sound shattered the silence. His gaze stopped above the band of her yellow panties. She wore an insulin pump. He knew the function but not how it operated.r />
  Why was it making noise? How dangerous was this situation? Was she dying slowly now? What did that noise mean? The axe wound between his shoulders throbbed but he shrugged them hard, sending a sharp spasm through his body. He needed to focus. He could call Nomad, but he’d have to explain why he needed to know and he wasn’t ready for that yet.

  He slapped her cheeks but she didn’t wake. Her pulse was steady and her breathing unlabored. He couldn’t tell if her pupils were dilated or not. Any fool could staunch a blood flow with pressure but he was in over his head with this. The pump beeped continuously.

  Aggravation thinned his mouth. He hated not being in control, not knowing what to do. It brought his earliest days as a human back with a bitter taste. Teeth gritted in annoyance, he stomped back down the hall deliberately making noise and hoping she would wake and tell him what she needed. The living room was sparsely decorated with only the couch and a mismatched armchair. Hefting the chair, he carried it to her bedroom and dropped it with a thump. She never flinched.

  He sat, crossed his arms and his ankles and waited. Her chest rose steadily. The nightshirt she wore was knee-length but had tangled around her waist. That beeping machine held his eye for a long minute. It was connected to her body with surgical tape. Thrusting out of the chair, he grabbed one edge of the tape and yanked, hoping pain would wake her. The needle-like tip pulled from her belly. A slight moan was her only reaction.

  Sticky residue surrounded a bright red patch of skin, vibrant against her smooth stomach and above her bright yellow underwear. Her navel was a perfect circle, a tiny little well in the flat expanse of skin. He looked away, grabbed the edge of the sheet and covered her from the waist down. The pump kept beeping so he tossed it on a box used as a nightstand where it silenced itself. He settled back in his chair to watch, to guard, to defend. It was all he was. After countless centuries, he barely remembered any other existence.

  The need for sleep poked at him and he closed his eyes. Nomad had taped thick padding to his wound and told him to go to bed. He hadn’t, he’d followed the Viking who’d wounded him. Not for revenge. That was not his to claim. But when Vike was caught up in the warring haze of emotion, he could make stupid choices. Zale cracked one eye and studied the sleeping woman. He wasn’t sure if this was one yet or not.

  A yawn stretched his mouth. Unlike the other Forsaken, healing sleep for him wasn’t coma-like. He healed faster and could wake at will, be awoken by any movement or noise no matter where he was in the healing process. The difference, a holdover from his unearthly birth, had suited him well over time. He used it now and let sleep come, let it knit the muscles and skin in his back while he kept one ear in tune with the low snores coming from the bed.

  At the last seconds before he succumbed, he snorted in irony. He’d come to kill her and now watched over her like a shepherd does his sheep. He wondered who would win this round, the shepherd or the wolf?

  He only slept about thirty minutes when a whimper snapped his eyes open. The sister moved, her foot inching from beneath the sheet. Zale launched out of the chair. Her foot continued to twitch. It spread up her leg like a lightning strike until her entire frame convulsed. Something in his belly hardened as a vague memory surfaced. Didn’t diabetics go into comas or something? His hands gripped his hair. What should he do? He couldn’t let a Scionim die. Kill her to protect her, sure, that was easy, but to stand and watch was akin to failure. His very blood screamed at the suggestion.

  Her body flopped, dark hair shimmying along the pillow. He raked his palms down his face. She needed help and he wasn’t enough. Denim scraped his knuckles as he plunged his hand into his pocket for his phone. The seizure stopped.

  He waited, but she didn’t move again. He punched the number three. It rang once then Nomad’s snarl answered. “I told you to take a fucking nap.”

  Zale growled. “What’s it mean when a diabetic has a seizure?”

  “It means call 911.”

  “I called you.”

  “Obviously.” Leather creaked through the phone. Zale could just see Nomad leaning forward, frowning in consternation. “Lacy’s sister?”

  Zale said nothing, letting Nomad make his own assumptions.

  “Where’s her blood monitor and emergency pen?”

  “No idea what those are. Her pump was making noises but it’s not anymore.”

  “What noises? There should be a read out on the front. What’s it say?”

  Propping the phone between his shoulder and ear, he grabbed and turned the little box around until he could see the digital display. The abbreviations and numbers meant nothing to him but he read them aloud.

  “Shit, she had two boluses in less than five minutes. Why would she do that?”

  Zale pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe she didn’t. One of the Forsaken could have bumped the machine when putting her on the couch or he may have knocked it picking her up.

  Nomad heaved a sigh. “You need to get some juice or jam down her throat fast. If that doesn’t bring her around, you’re in over your head. Want me to Leap over there?”

  Zale strode from the bedside to the kitchen. The refrigerator held little food but on the top shelf was an unopened carton of orange juice and a jar of strawberry jam. “I’ll try these first.”

  He tapped End. Juice carton in one hand and jam tucked in his arm, Zale grabbed a disposable cup from the open package on the counter and Leaped back to her. Prying the lid off the jar, he scooped out a large fingerful of sticky red and shoved it in her mouth. She didn’t swallow. He shoveled more jam in, rubbing it into her gums and under her tongue.

  Her face turned away. He couldn’t figure out how to open the juice carton, to make that nice pointed spout Lacy did. He ripped a hole in the top and poured a full glass. There was no way she could hold it, so he tugged her up and held the rim to her lips.

  “Drink.”

  Some spilled on her chest but enough made it down her throat that she coughed and shoved at him. He pressed the cup back to her mouth. She fought but it was a minor annoyance. He kept pouring the bright orange fluid into her mouth.

  “Go ‘way,” she murmured, turning to her side. Her voice was as sluggish as her movements.

  Bright yellow and rounded, her butt stuck out from the sheet. He swatted her on the ass with a sharp crack. Her eyes snapped open but her gaze was unfocused and glassy. Her lids started to close. Zale shook her. “Drink the juice.”

  “What?”

  “Juice.” He tried for patience. “Drink it.”

  There wasn’t any more resistance as he tipped the cup to her mouth. She drank too slowly and he angled the rim higher, forcing her to swallow more. After a few moments, her hand came up and curled around his. “I got it. Stop drowning me.”

  He stepped away but watched as she sipped. Color came back to her cheeks. She blinked rapidly and, in between drinks, took several slow breaths. He didn’t release the one he held until she scooted up in the bed in a controlled movement.

  “Do you need more sugar?”

  Still slightly dazed, she nodded. “Crackers.”

  He Leaped. Snagging the first box he saw in the cabinet, he Leaped back to her side. She screamed and hurled the half-full cup at him. Tangy orange bathed his face as she scurried to the far edge of the mattress. Her now clear eyes were abnormally large and focused on him.

  “Who are you? What are you?”

  Extending the box toward her, he said nothing. He hadn’t realized the juice would work so quickly to bring her around. He shouldn’t have Leaped when there was a danger of her seeing. Wide and terrified, her eyes fell to the box then jerked back to his face. For the first time in eons, Zale felt the sting of regret at her fear.

  He set the peanut butter crackers and empty cup on the mattress and moved back. Her hand trembled as she reached for the box. Through the ripping of cardboard and the crackle of the plastic liner, she watched him. There was little grace as she shoved a cracker into her mouth, her jaw working furi
ously. The visual stand-off lasted for four squares.

  “Who are you?’

  “Zale Emanon. I’m team leader for Black Handle Security.”

  Disgust thinned her lips. “They took Lacy. Did they hurt her?”

  “No.”

  Confusion darted her eyes left and right. “They kidnapped her. They drugged us both!”

  He’d have just killed them both if Sela hadn’t forbid it. “You had a seizure.”

  “What the hell is going on?” She rubbed her head as if it ached. She pinned him with a scrutinizing glare. “Did you disappear and reappear into thin air?”

  How he wished he could lie. Unable to deny it, he nodded. “Yes.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “No, just not normal for humans.”

  Her wide eyes went even wider. “Humans? You’re not human?”

  A grimace tightened his jaw. That would take a lot of explaining. If he said nothing, he didn’t have to explain anything. He’d become extremely comfortable ignoring questions and staying silent.

  Apparently the sister — He had to stop thinking of her like that. She had a name. Apparently Annie had no problems letting him stay silent. Mentally, he kicked his own behind for not keeping his mouth shut earlier.

  Nibbling on a cracker, her shoulders suddenly lost their stiffness. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “No.” Under Sela’s orders, he couldn’t, not with her Scion blood singing to him and a threat not eminently pressing down.

  “I guess since you didn’t when I was out of it, I’ll trust you.” The delicate lines of her throat worked with a swallow. “Is Lacy really okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did they take her?”

  “To a place where she’s safe.”

  The flower-print sheet wrinkled as she shoved it away and stood. Her knees gave way and he caught her before she fell. Short, rounded nails dug into his forearm. “Whoa, okay. Too soon for that.”