The dogs stood, hair spiking along their shoulders and backs. Mouths open and tongues trembling, their snouts were ridged with wrinkles. Their teeth glinted, slick with saliva. They were huge—big brutes. And there were—one, two …
… seven I could see, more than I’d imagined prowling the grounds.
Hunting people like Pietr.
Harmony screamed again, thrashing, her body racked with tremors, hair sprouting in thick and sudden patches. She clawed at herself, frantic, eyes wide. Her face distorted, pulling into a snout and she shouted, words garbled as her vocal cords changed and her body stuttered, choosing one shape or another.
Tight to the dogs’ broad chain collars thick leashes were attached. They rattled in anticipation.
With a final cry she kicked out, her foot cracking against a dog’s jaw.
There was no more barking. No snapping. Only a growing, rumbling growl.
Harmony grew still, only the occasional flutter of her chest showing she lived, her form stuck between the two warring sides of her twisted genetics.
Just beyond the scope of my vision, Dr. Jones cursed. “This isn’t working. I’m not exactly sure where we went wrong, but this subject is a total loss.”
“She’s strong—she popped the straps and sent those buckles flying. Maybe it just doesn’t work on half-bloods.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps we’re missing a component. She’s worthless either way. She submitted,” Jones pointed out. “More flight than fight. And that? That doesn’t look like a cure—stuck between. Disgusting. We’ll need another subject. I’d love to get my hands on a full-blood. The Rusakova alpha. Now he would be a prize specimen.”
“What do we do with her?”
“Look away.”
Fingers snapped. “Fred. Jeremy.”
My eyes went wide as I caught a glimpse of a wickedly scarred arm repaired with awkward-looking stitches. Its hand moved to detach the leashes.
The wrist turned and I spotted the odd tattoo.
My guards?
“We’ve made a dog’s breakfast out of this,” Jones said, more a command than a comment.
There was no more growling.
But the screaming made up for it as the dogs attacked.
I barely kept from jumping back, gasping in horror. She’d submitted! Given up!
For a moment the writhing bodies of the dogs parted. Harmony struggled to rise, slipping in her own blood, her hand reaching for my door’s knob …
And then they pounced and tore her to pieces.
I slid down the wall, covering my head with my arms.
The frenzy of noise rose in volume for the space of a few heartbeats and then the sounds changed.
Gnawing.
The lapping up of liquid … blood.
I was going to be sick.
The quiet sounds of the aftermath of murder were deafening.
“See?” Dr. Jones asked. “Just a little additional cleanup.”
The nurse gagged.
“Stop that,” Jones scolded. “We must be pragmatic about all this. We are on the verge of changing—recharging—the abilities of evolution itself.”
Eyes wide, I clutched my discarded clipboard, crushing it to my chest.
The nurse reasoned, “If we include werewolfism in humanity’s new evolution, don’t we, the previous generations, slip down the food chain?”
“Oh. See? You’ve already recovered your sense of humor.”
“I wasn’t…” The nurse fell silent.
“If only dealing with that Gillmansen girl was this simple. But she’s off the menu.”
“She’s his pet,” the nurse reminded.
“It seems she’s the pet of a few. You wouldn’t expect it, looking at her, would you?”
I blinked.
“But Derek does get a charge out of strange things.”
The nurse chuckled—almost on cue. “Charge. He calls her his favorite battery.”
“He’s made such a mess of things,” Jones muttered. “But to realize his potential—it’s as amazing as finally finding these werewolves.” There was a pause. “Fred. Jeremy. Get a mop and a bucket.”
Heavy footsteps clumped away.
“Your stitching’s clumsy,” Jones confided.
Stitching? Like, the stitches I’d seen on the arm?
“Jeremy’s new bit will work just fine. We’re not stitching for cosmetic improvement.”
“Touchy, touchy. As long as they wear long sleeves and long pants it isn’t really noticeable, I guess. They run through replacement parts quickly.”
Replacement parts?
“Must be bad circulation. Their systems gum up easily.”
“These are still functioning a lot better than the first.”
My head snapped up. By first pair did she mean—my original guards?
“Jessica’s still too self-absorbed to notice much of anything outside herself, anyhow,” the nurse pointed out.
Crap. Murder and multiple insults.
“At least there’s no shortage of parts.”
“Quality would be better than quantity. And frankly he needs to be trained to feed on the living. And let them keep living,” Jones clarified. “Good, Fred and Jeremy. Mop that up. I mean, injecting some misery into people’s lives to get something back—it’s nothing more than our own government does every April fifteenth. But the way he finishes…” Her words trailed off.
“Everyone’s following the Teen Train Track Suicides story. It makes us a little more high-profile than I like.” Jones paused. “But it’s worth it. The werewolves … no. Jeremy. Get a fresh bucket. We’re not trying to paint the floor, but clean it.” There was a clunk and a slosh. “We’re close to replicating the code that makes them so changeable. But Jamieson is a stranger cocktail of capabilities. He makes his parents look like nothing.”
Derek’s parents?
“That goes down on my list of things I never thought I’d hear,” the nurse admitted. “The high school football star’s more amazing than Soviet-created werewolves.”
“His services are invaluable. If we can just get him to only feed from her … or better yet, some other battery altogether. Then if she’s troublesome we can eliminate her. Everything’s set for that possibility.”
“What about that Sarah being his battery?”
“She’s too stable. Too happy being nasty. But Gillmansen? She’s a roller coaster of emotions.”
Niiice. I was officially less stable than my psycho ex-BFF.
“Nice job, boys. We should spray the hall so it doesn’t smell. Now where did we—”
I forced myself into a crouch. They were going to search for disinfectant spray. I needed to hide. The room was nearly empty except for an industrial-sized refrigerator that took up most of it. Great choice, Jess. Hide in the one room with no closets.
“I’ll check here—”
I sprinted to the fridge, staying low, and pulled the massive door open to slide inside. I snatched the papers off my clipboard and stuffed them between the two lock sections so the door appeared closed but didn’t seal me in.
Taking a step deeper inside, I decided to wait them out. Not registering closed, the light remained on. The fridge puffed out a fresh round of cold air, fogging my surroundings.
The chill caught up to me, and I rubbed my arms and moved my feet. Maybe if I walked in a tight circle …
I paused at the first set of shelves.
A black bag—a long black bag—stretched most of its length. I knew of no produce needing a bag that size.
Cold as I was, my heart pounded faster as the doctor’s and nurse’s words came back to me: replacement parts.
No shortage.
My hands trembled. It was official. I was living a nightmare. Still, I reached out—needing to know …
Fingers quivering with cold and dread, the bag—so much like the leaf bags lining Junction’s suburban lawns this time of year—rattled under my touch, noisy and stiff as it opened.
I
stepped back and fought my rebelling stomach.
In the thick, black plastic bag, in the huge refrigerator, lay the train-bludgeoned remains of Jack Jacobsen.
Frozen on his bruised and waxy face was a smile. Like he’d just won Homecoming, not like he was ready to embrace an iron horse on a short ride to death.
I swallowed hard. Okay. Jack’s body was in cold storage in the local asylum. “Get a hold of yourself, Jess.”
I could do this. I could figure out what was going on and help … somehow. I made myself step forward and reclose the bag over Jack’s euphoric face.
Derek was feeding. On his friends. He’d definitely gotten a charge out of me and made me believe things I shouldn’t have with just a simple touch.… What if…?
The thought disconnected and spun, loose, in my head.
I’d forgiven a lot of people’s mistakes recently. And some I’d tried to forgive.… Maybe in Jack’s last moments he believed he had won Homecoming.
At what point did we become unforgivable?
I wanted to tug at my hair, urge my sluggish brain to go faster, but I couldn’t stand the thought of touching myself with the same hands that had just opened that bag.
I paced.
We had a group trying to cure the werewolves and one trying to replicate them. We had my guards—slow to function and needing replacement parts of the human variety. How much could you get out of a body that had been partially pulped by a train?
“Oh.”
Quality would be better than quantity.
My gaze skimmed the other shelves. Filled with black bags. Different sizes, with different volumes of—contents.
Parts.
I looked at the door. How soon could I leave? How long had I already been here, stunned? Taking in a deep breath, I realized I had no answers. Except the most disturbing ones.
Slumping, I slid down into a seated position and rested my head on my knees. I couldn’t leave yet. But I wanted nothing more than to get away.
Away from the refrigerator from Hell, the bloodstained basement hall and zombie Fred and Jeremy.
Away from all of Pecan Place.
Maybe from Junction itself.
Curled in on myself, I stayed there until my breath no longer steamed as brightly from my mouth and my body threatened to shake apart with cold. Finally I rose and went to the door, opening it slowly—partly because my joints were stiff and partly to retrieve the papers I’d used to stop the lock.
I grabbed the clipboard and shouldered the door open, slipping out and crawling to the room’s door, beneath the view of the single window. The papers on the clipboard rustled and I clamped them down with my fingers.
Peeking out the window I noticed the hall was scrubbed clean—absent of doctors, nurses, dogs, zombies, body parts, and blood. No noise echoed in the clean white space, nothing to alarm me and keep me in the room.
Carefully I opened the door and stepped into the hall. The overpowering scent of disinfectant spray hung in the air.
It was as if there had been no experiment performed on a patient. No murder—no bodies in the basement. Like everything was normal and scented with lavender.
It seemed healthy.
And that’s how I had to appear, too.
Healthy. Normal. Unrattled.
Straightening my back, I squared my shoulders and set off down the hall in search of the laundry cart.
And there it was. Like a beacon of hope and normalcy, stacked high with pants and shirts.
“You can do this.” I grabbed the cart and headed to the elevator. I swiped the key and thrust the cart inside. “Normal. You wanted normal, right?” I was babbling. But I was willing to excuse myself this time. Extenuating circumstances. “What’s that philosophy? Act like you already have something and the universe will provide it for you? Yeah. Go normal.”
Deciding whistling a cheerful tune would be pushing it—especially since I was nearly tone deaf—I waited for the elevator to open and shoved the cart into the hall with a grunt.
I set the clipboard on top of the stack, hurried to the first room, and laid the change of clothes on the patient’s bed.
In.
Out.
I could almost forget what I’d just witnessed.… Besides, I was untouchable, they’d said.
As long as I didn’t screw up.
I reached for the clipboard to put down my customary check mark showing successful delivery.
The page was missing.
Out of order?
I flipped through the stack.
The page I needed wasn’t there.
My gaze skated over the cart.
No.
Not there, either.
I glanced toward the elevator, stomach churning. I could—
“Miss Gillmansen!”
The substitute nurse had spotted me.
I waved. “Sorry. Moving slowly this morning.”
“Just hurry up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Fear sped my steps.
Finishing quickly I tucked the swipe key and lanyard in my bra. Maybe I could sneak down and retrieve the missing paper.…
I handed over the clipboard and cart and shuffled away—right into Fred. Or Jeremy. “Oh. Hey.” I glanced over broad shoulders at the clock hanging on the wall. “Lunchtime, isn’t it?” Looking down I noticed dark red speckling their shoes. I tried to swallow the rock in my throat. “I’m not—really—hungry. Home,” I said, wanting it more than ever. They, of course, led me to my room.
“Miss Gillmansen,” the substitute nurse called. “I think you forgot something.…” She hurried toward me.
I gave her a blank look.
“The key.”
“Oh. Ohhh. Sorry.” Damn it. I snaked a hand down my shirt and pulled out the lanyard. “Must’ve—gotten caught in—”
“Your ample bosom?” the sub asked, scoffing.
Crap. People were just mean here. Mean. And murderous. Priorities, Jess. Priorities. Murderous was worse than mean. “Boobs,” I confided. “They get us all in so much trouble.”
She snorted and took the key—and my hope at recovering the paper—away.
I spent the rest of my day seated on my bed, doing what so many patients did.
Rocking and muttering to myself I realized the person I wanted closest was the one in the most danger from Jones’s desired experiments and the nightly patrols of killer dogs.
I wouldn’t risk Pietr’s safety any longer.
Jessie
He was at the window, tapping for my attention. One heartbeat before the dogs caught his scent, a moment beyond the rush of the guards.
They might catch him. Hurt him worse than the day he failed to keep his promise, or hold him long enough to restrain him, cage him … tie him down and shoot him up like Harmony.…
Beat the wildness from his eyes …
I’d love to get my hands on a full-blood, Jones had said. The Rusakova alpha. Now he would be a prize specimen.
They’d make him think even his brief life was far too long.
I kept my back to the window. There was nothing Pietr could do for me right now and at least seven ways I risked him by encouraging his presence. It was better this way—me on the inside, caged, him with a hope of freedom.
Even if it meant freedom without me.
The noise of the dogs rang out, turning on the night’s breeze, my stomach twisting in echo.
Pietr slammed his fist on the glass; even his power, his anger, resulted in only a dull thud.
Like my heart made in my chest.
I stared at my useless hands, my fingers knotting.
Another insistent thud.
Why didn’t he run?
Please. Please … run…, I begged, squeezing my eyes tight against the sound of the approaching dogs.
Down the hall from my room a door slammed. I wanted to shriek, “They’re coming!” But I didn’t react in case it gave him one more heartbeat’s worth of hesitation.…
I needed Pietr sa
fe. And that meant far from here. From me. I hardened my heart against the glowing eyes cutting into my back.
And when I heard the approaching dogs turn and race off, following their retreating prey, I fell to the floor and cried my heart out at my betrayal.
Jessie
“Jessie,” Dad greeted me.
Fred—or Jeremy—stood, followed by his mute companion. They lumbered away from the table, giving Dad and me some privacy. We hugged, me holding on a little bit longer this time and definitely a little tighter.
Dad finally broke away, his face full of worry.
He slipped something into my hand.
A cell phone.
It buzzed, vibrating.
“Sit down,” Dad instructed. “Act normal. Alexi sent it. Looks like a piece of junk, but he said it’s exactly what’s needed in these circumstances.”
Realizing any phone Alexi provided was probably untraceable, I obeyed.
“It’s Pietr,” he explained. “He’s upset about last night.”
Thank God he was okay. Upset, I could deal with. Hurt. Dead? I fought for focus.
Dad pulled out chairs and I slipped my hands under the table, slouching for a view of the phone, and opened it. “I’m going to give you an update on my favorite sports teams and you just nod and react, okay?”
I nodded. “Sounds absolutely … purgatorial.” I typed in my message.
RU safe?
Da. I <3 you.
I <3 U 2. Don’t come here again. *Promise*.
No response. I tried again.
*Promise* u won’t come here again.
I try 2 keep promises. Failed b4. Don’t make me promise 2 stay away. = 1 more failure.
My stomach knotted. Even though they were tiny letters on a poorly lit screen, they meant huge things to him.
U did ur best. U always do ur best 4 me.
Nothing.
Do ur best 4 u. Stay safe.
She’s dying.
His last sentence was so simple and clear it seemed he’d whispered it in my ear, stealing my breath away.
Dad raised his voice, extolling the virtues of some football team’s kicker.
Have u seen her?
Da. Last x went badly.
Srry …
God! Why couldn’t I help him with this thing? Why was I so—helpless?
Can u get 2 her?
Bargains and Betrayals Page 8