Reckless Road

by Feehan, Christine

  He took a deep breath and let it out. “Let’s go, then.” At least the blood was out of his eyes and he could see. He felt like a fool with a blouse wrapped around his head. The devil only knew what he looked like, but he wasn’t going to let her face whatever was in that house—good or bad— alone.

  Zyah hesitated, shook her head and then turned toward the house. “You know you’re stubborn as hell.”

  He couldn’t deny that charge, so he concentrated on not vomiting all over her nearly immaculate garage. She hurried, walking upright, while he had to crawl. There was no way for him to get up on his feet. After she punched the code into the door and used her thumbprint on top of the code, she glanced over her shoulder and said something very unladylike under her breath.

  “What are you doing? Player?”

  His name was whispered right along with a curse word. He could barely distinguish between the two, but he was concentrating on dragging himself to the door without his head falling off.

  “There’s a trail of blood behind you wider than a river.” She was back, crouching down to circle his waist with her arm. “This is silly. You can’t even stand up.”

  Yeah, he got that. He clenched his teeth against the nausea, praying to the fucking devil he didn’t throw up all over her. He went to his go-to place, trying to build bombs in his head, something he’d done since he was a child, to keep from losing his mind.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stand. What do you usually do when you enter the house? The first thing, Zyah?” He rested on the stairs while he asked. He wasn’t even certain he was talking. Or making sense.

  “I call out to her. Tell her I’m home.”

  “Do that, then, but don’t go all the way inside. Does she answer you?”

  “Yes, right away. She’s always up waiting for me no matter the time.”

  “Pay attention to her voice. Does she sound the same? Under duress? Do you have a word or phrase you’ve worked out indicating one or both of you are in trouble?” He could barely think with the pounding in his skull. He had to speak through clenched teeth and hope she didn’t notice.

  “That would have been a good idea. But yes, I would know if she was under duress.” She didn’t wait but stepped inside the open door and called out cheerfully. “Mama Anat, I’m back.”

  “You ran late tonight.” The relief in her grandmother’s voice was evident. “I was worried, Zyah.” Anxiety made her voice tremble.

  “Are you alone? Did Lizz leave already?” Deliberately, Zyah helped Player crawl into the hallway and then turned on the water at the sink in the kitchen as if she were washing her hands.

  “Lizz’s granddaughter called earlier and needed a ride somewhere important. She waited as long as she could for you to get home. I told her I’d be all right. I have a sawedoff shotgun right here, sitting on my lap. She watched me load it before she left.”

  “Mama Anat, that is illegal here in the States.” Zyah tried to keep the laughter out of her voice, but relief clearly was making her a little giddy. “You don’t have a permit, or whatever it is you need.”

  “If the cops came, I was going to shove it under the bed. I had a plan.”

  Zyah kept her arm around Player, urging him forward, but he balked at moving another inch. He didn’t want to die in front of her grandmother. He could taste blood in his mouth. The edges of his mind were so dark now, he truly was afraid he was going to die before Maestro got there. Desperately, he worked on that alternate reality, trying to be meticulous about arranging his bomb, holding his brain together until he was alone and Zyah was safe.

  “I don’t want to scare her, looking like this.” He couldn’t get to his feet. He was still on his hands and knees, even with her arm around his waist. “The brothers will be here soon, and they’ll deal with me.”

  “Who’s that with you?” her grandmother asked, her voice sharp. Demanding.

  “Zyah. Look at me. I can’t meet her looking like this.” Player was beginning to feel a little desperate. He wasn’t going to make a good impression by vomiting all over her grandmother’s floor, and that was about to happen. “Go in and let her see you. I’ll be fine right here. She needs to know you’re all right.” He poured persuasion into his voice, knowing it wasn’t right, but not caring. “Best not to say anything about all of this yet.”

  “He escorted me home, Mama Anat. He rolled over the hood of my car and hit his head on the concrete.”

  He was already looking around for a bathroom. He was going to be sick, and the moment she let go of him, he was going to topple over, straight to the floor. He was already on his knees, so he didn’t have that far to fall.

  The door between the kitchen and garage flew open and Maestro was there, his gun tracking, centered on Zyah as he took in Player’s head and the blood-soaked blouse wrapped around his skull. There was blood all over his face and shirt and more on his shoulder and bicep. Even on his hands and knees, swaying, his vision going in and out, Player still made an effort to shove Zyah behind him.

  “She’s with me, Maestro,” he bit out between his teeth. “They were after her.”

  “Zyah,” Anat called out, her voice quivering. “Come to me now.”

  Zyah let go of Player and rushed out of the kitchen, ignoring Maestro and his weapon. Player would have hit the floor face-first if Maestro hadn’t caught him.

  “Going to get sick. Get me the hell out of here,” he managed.

  Maestro indicated a door just to his left and all but carried him. Movement rocked Player’s head until he was certain his brain was going to explode into a million pieces. The image was starting to become difficult to keep at bay. His stomach lurched, thankfully disrupting the making of the bomb he had so meticulously learned as a child. He’d made them and dismantled them over and over until he could do it in his sleep.

  The moment Maestro propelled him those last steps into the small bathroom, he found himself hugging the toilet and emptying the contents of his stomach repeatedly. Maestro thankfully took his gun and stood guard over him because he was incapable of guarding anything. He tried several times to indicate for his brother to check on the women and clear the house just to make certain everything was all right inside, but Maestro refused to leave him.

  Within a matter of minutes, two more Torpedo Ink brothers crowded in, their broad shoulders filling the kitchen in complete silence, weapons drawn, faces grim. Savage meant business, and it showed in every deep line and the cold death in his eyes. Destroyer was with him, that same look etched into his menacing features.

  “We’re clear outside and only the two women are inside. Doc is here to look after Player,” Savage assured Maestro.

  Player had never been so relieved to hear anything in his life. He needed to warn them all that his brain was reacting in a confused, lethal way and everyone around him was going to be in danger. They needed to get him clear, not only of Zyah and her grandmother but of the club as well. Unexpectedly, before he could, everything went black.

  Player woke to the sound of voices. He was very confused. Cold. Shivering. His head exploding with pain. He had no idea where he was. Or did he? A bedroom, definitely not his own. It hurt to breathe. To try to think.

  When he dared to take a breath, he drew in combined exotic scents he recognized instantly. He knew the earth and all the various fragrances. Woods. Scents. Exotics and those closer to home. Very subtle, but definitely jasmine, a very distinctive cinnamic-honey background and a cassisraspberry facet blending with the rich green floral mimosa he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind since he’d woken up from what he’d been so certain was a dream. Being surrounded by that scent now just threw him right back into that same uncertainty. His dancer. Zyah. Was she real? Was anything in his life real? He honestly didn’t know.

  His head pounded. A jackhammer seemed to be drilling holes through his skull. He tried to surface all the way. His breath caught in his throat. He had to warn someone. Had to make certain they were going to
get him away from everyone. He was dangerous when he had no control. Right then he definitely didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

  “Stop fighting.”

  He recognized Steele’s voice the moment he came close, but he couldn’t seem to pry his eyes open. Had they beaten the crap out of him again? Taken his skin off? Was the blood so thick his lids were sealed shut? He wanted to strike out. He didn’t know.

  “Settle down, Player. I’m right here. You’re not going to hurt anyone.” Steele’s voice was reassuring. He was always calm in the middle of a crisis. “Maestro’s right here. Savage and Destroyer are outside watching the place in case the assholes come back. You need to hold still and let me take a good look inside your head and see what’s going on.”

  “Can you really do that? Look inside his head? Shouldn’t you take him to a hospital and get an MRI?” A woman’s voice. He expected a child’s voice.

  He was caught between the past and the present, but that had to be his dancer, Zyah, and her voice was filled with anxiety. Player couldn’t help but like that. But what the hell was she doing down in the dungeon with them? That must be why her scent was everywhere. The fuckers had gotten her in spite of his trying to stop them. Or maybe he was out of his mind again. He had to let Steele take care of everything when he was so far gone.

  “You’re aware of certain psychic gifts, Zyah.” Steele’s voice was calm. Matter of fact. “I don’t need an MRI to tell me what I need to know. If I have to do surgery, I can do the surgery here, repair his brain.”

  “Are you crazy?” Zyah’s voice dripped with tears. “He’s going to die. He’s bad. I’ve seen his brain. I can look into his mind. I can’t do surgery, but I can repair certain things. Even in a hospital, a brain surgeon might not be able to fix that damage. I had no idea it was that bad.”

  “Zyah, leave the room if you can’t be quiet,” Steele commanded.

  No one disobeyed Steele when he talked in that voice. Firm. Low. Definitely all doctor. Player felt him then, inside his head. Moving shattered pieces around. The pain was excruciating.

  “Let go, Player,” Steele said.

  Player tried to stay awake, to push at Steele, to tell him to take him away from all of them. He wasn’t safe. Couldn’t Steele see that? Steele only looked at his brain, not what was going on inside of it. He didn’t see the damage inside, where he was so fucked up he kept going back and forth between his childhood and present day. Between danger and safety. He didn’t know what really happened to him when illusion became reality.

  Steele sighed with relief when Player succumbed to the pain of the terrible wound. Zyah gasped and moved closer as if she could bring him back.

  “He’s not dead. Move around to the other side.” Sweat broke out on Steele’s forehead. He wasn’t altogether certain he could save Player. He glanced at Savage. Met his eyes. Shook his head.

  He wouldn’t give up. He had a gift—an extraordinary one. He’d trained from the time he was a child with the best surgeons Sorbacov could provide for him to study under. He was a prodigy. He devoured books, and once the information was in his mind, his gift took over, allowing him to use his mind to heal. It had taken years to strengthen that talent, shape it into what it was today, allowing him to do surgery, to give Player the chance to live when he wouldn’t have survived going to the hospital and undergoing brain surgery. No possible way would he have made it. Although the brain was an extraordinary thing and Player was an extraordinary man.

  Steele fought for him for hours, working meticulously, healing him as he put him back together. He was aware, and a little shocked, that Zyah was right there with him, watching him, in Player’s mind, which connected to him. How she’d gotten that way already, he had no idea, but he knew, from what Player had said about her, that she was talented.

  It took the better part of the night to repair the damage to Player’s brain. Steele had never attempted a surgery and healing of that magnitude before. It left him shaky and exhausted but triumphant. He was certain Player would heal very fast, especially if he continued to work on him daily.

  Pain exploded through Player’s head, bringing with it images of White Rabbits and caterpillars and lobsters on cyclones. He felt sick to his stomach and didn’t want to open his eyes or move one inch in case he might vomit. He was aware of Steele close. Talking to him. Working on him. He felt warmth in his head.

  “I want to take him home with me. We brought the van this time. I think we can get him down the stairs and transport him safely now. It’s been a few days. I’ve got a much more sterile environment, and I have to work on healing him, although, already, I’m seeing an improvement.” There was satisfaction in Steele’s voice.

  Player didn’t feel like there was improvement. He didn’t want to go to the doc’s home, where his wife and child were, either. It was too dangerous, with his mind already spinning his illusions. He could see the bench and table in his mind where he built his bombs. That wasn’t good. It was never good. Not if all those things were lining up. He couldn’t open his eyes no matter how hard he tried to pry his lids apart.

  “No.” Zyah’s protest was instant. Player recognized her voice. “That’s not a good idea. He has to stay here.”

  Player hadn’t realized she was close. He didn’t want her near him. Not when he wasn’t in control.

  “Stay still, Player,” Steele ordered softly. “Let me take care of you.”

  Player subsided. He didn’t dare go against Steele when he used his “doctor” voice. In any case, Player wasn’t altogether certain what was really happening. He stayed still and listened, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

  “Explain why you think Player would be better off here with you instead of with me in my home,” Steele continued as if nothing had interrupted them.

  “I can’t explain it any more than you can explain to me what you’re doing right now,” Zyah said. “Only that I have an absolutely strong reaction against you taking him from here.” She hesitated. “Even when I don’t want him here.” There was honesty in her voice.

  Zyah seemed to hesitate again, as if she were trying to decide what to say and how to say it. Player tried to focus on her, but even that small concentration put too much strain on him and pain exploded through him. Steele all but snarled at him, and he made an effort to keep very still and allow his brain to do the same.

  Zyah’s voice was decisive when she spoke. “You have a tremendous gift, Steele. I’ve never seen anything like it. I doubt if Player would have survived without you, and I know he’ll need your constant care for a while. Just the last few days have proven that. But I have a strong gift as well, and Player and I are connected in a very elemental way. Your talent works on the brain itself, repairing it. My gift works on the mind. I can only tell you that I believe with everything in me that if you take him away from me, we’ll lose him. Something terrible will happen.”

  There was a long silence. Player willed Steele to say no. He couldn’t stay there and endanger Zyah, not when he couldn’t remember much beyond the caterpillar smoking and the lobsters riding the cyclones in the sea. Or the materials for making bombs laid out on the table for him to start work. He couldn’t get past the pounding in his head to pry his eyelids open. Maybe the blood had sealed them shut permanently. He allowed himself to drift on the waves of pain as they rose and fell through his head.

  The next time Player woke, he knew he was alone, but he had no idea where he was. He tried to figure it out, but the pain was too brutal. What had it been this time? What had they done to him? To his body? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to. Sweat beaded from his pores. He had no idea of time passing, but he rarely did. The pounding in his head prevented movement and thought. He just let the pain take him wherever it wanted to go.

  Player wasn’t like the others. They had useful talents. All of them did, whether they thought so or not. Lana didn’t think she contributed much to their unit, their family—and they’d become one, thanks to Czar
. Player knew better. Lana brought them all comfort. When it was at the bleakest hour, when there was no hope, Lana brought them out of the darkness. She found a way. The rest of them all had talents that counted, that contributed to their survival. What did he do for them? He skated the edge of danger all the time. The others just weren’t aware of it as he was.

  The knowledge had been growing in him ever since the unfortunate mushroom incident. That had provided endless laughter for his family. Player had laughed with them—on the outside. On the inside, he had grown very scared. He knew something was wrong with his brain, and that something was getting stronger, taking him over.

  All of them had been so hungry. They were always hungry. Starving. Freezing cold and hungry. Held down in what they referred to as the dungeon, the basement of the school they all attended, they huddled together in a little pile of shivering bodies, leaking blood from open wounds and trying to stay alive. He wasn’t certain why they bothered trying most of the time, but self-preservation was strong in all of them. Absinthe took turns with his older brother Demyan, or Transporter, reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. They did the voices, and that kept their minds off the ever-present hunger.

  Where had that book come from? It hadn’t been in the meager library of books they stole from. He tried to remember. Every time he did, like now, there was an explosion of pain accompanied by a memory of the long table with the pieces of the equipment laid out precisely, the way he always laid out the materials before he began building bombs. Behind him stood Sorbacov with his ever-present pocket watch, while Player hunched naked on the bench, trying to build the bomb fast to avoid the punishment—the whip tearing the flesh from his back if he didn’t beat his last time.

  Where had they gotten the book, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, which was being read while they shivered with cold and hunger? Player couldn’t remember, but he knew it was important.