Dark Descendant (3 page)

and get photos of each member. In those photos, the only member of the cult who’d had a tattoo

was Blake, who had a corny cartoon Cupid on his biceps. But as I blinked water out of my eyes,

I saw that each person in the hall had a tattoo visible somewhere, mostly on their faces or necks.

The tattoos were like nothing I’d ever seen before. They looked like hieroglyphics or

cuneiform or some other incomprehensible script, and though I stared, I couldn’t for the life of

me come up with a word to describe their color. In fact, the colors seemed to change with every

minute shift of the light.

“What should I do with this one?” Blake asked, indicating me with a curl of his lip.

His question was directed at Anderson Kane, a man my observations had led me to

believe was their leader, despite his laid-back demeanor; a suspicion that was even now being

confirmed.

Anderson barely spared me a glance. “We’ll deal with her later,” he said dismissively.

“Put her downstairs for now.”

I voiced a protest at that, but no one listened to me. Oh, God. These guys were just going

to dump me in a room somewhere and let me bleed to death!

I tried to find something I could say to persuade Blake he needed to call an ambulance,

but if he heard a word I said, he made no sign of it. He carried me down a narrow flight of stairs

into a huge basement, then into a drafty corridor punctuated with several doors, each of which

came equipped with multiple deadbolt locks on the outside. None of those doors was locked, but

the sight instantly called to mind a prison cellblock.

Blake stopped in front of the first door, pushing it open with his foot to reveal a small,

barren room with a stone floor and a single thin cot in one corner. There was a sink and a toilet in

another corner, but other than that, the room was empty.

Blake dropped me unceremoniously onto the cot, and I couldn’t stifle a cry of pain as my

side and my head both screamed in agony. Without another word, he turned his back on me and

left the room, closing the door behind him.

With a moan of utter despair, I heard the dead bolts being thrown and realized that even if

my wounds didn’t kill me, I was still in big, big trouble.

THREE

I don’t know how
long I lay on that cot, shivering, bleeding, sure I was going to die. As

far as I could tell, I didn’t lose consciousness again, but my mind wasn’t exactly all there. I

suspected more time was passing than I could account for.

Feeling returned to my hands and feet, which was a relief. I’d been halfway convinced

that even if I survived, I’d lose a few fingers and toes to frostbite. The pain in my side and my

head faded to manageable levels, as long as I held absolutely still. The shivering didn’t stop, but

since my clothes were soaked through, that wasn’t a surprise.

What the hell had happened out there?

I remembered my headlights illuminating Emmitt’s face as he stood in the path of my car,

remembered the little smile on his lips, and how he hadn’t made the slightest attempt to get out

of the way. The evidence suggested he had
wanted
me to hit him. But hell, if he was bent on

committing suicide, surely he could have found an easier way!

After lying on that cot for who knows how long, I finally decided I couldn’t stand the feel

of wet fabric against my skin for another moment. Bracing myself for the pain, I made a tentative

effort to push myself into a sitting position.

It was easier than I’d expected. Yeah, it hurt. My side screamed, and my head throbbed,

and the whole room spun for a moment, but it was bearable. I glanced down at my sopping,

bloodstained sweater and swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. Maybe moving around

wasn’t such a great idea after all. The blended scents of wet wool and coppery blood gave my

stomach added incentive to rebel. I closed my eyes and breathed through my mouth until the

nausea receded.

Wincing in anticipation, I grabbed the hem of the sweater and started slowly, carefully

peeling it away from my skin. It stuck to my wound, but it was wet enough to come loose with

little effort. I stifled a whimper, my stomach rolling again. I’ve never been that crazy about the

sight of blood, especially my own.

Getting the sweater off over my head was pure torture; every movement of my left arm

pulled on the muscles around the wound. Even so, I was determined to get the wet wool away

from my skin.

Finally, I managed to drag the sweater off, dropping it to the floor with a plop. I sat still,

breathing hard from the exertion. Each breath made my side hurt. I forced myself to open my

eyes and examine the wound to see how bad it was and whether I’d started it bleeding again.

I expected to see a jagged, deep gash, based both on how much it hurt and how much I’d

bled. The wound that met my eyes stretched from the bottom of my rib cage all the way down to

my hip. Blood smeared my skin all the way around it, but the wound itself …

I blinked in confusion. The wound was an angry red seam, but the edges were kind of

puckered together, as if there were a whole lot of invisible stitches holding it closed.

What the hell?

Gently, I touched the edge of the wound with one trembling finger, sure I must have

passed out after all and been stitched up while I was unconscious. But I neither saw nor felt any

stitches. Besides, if someone had stitched me up, they wouldn’t have put the sodden sweater

back on me.

I shuddered and decided to think about it later. I still had more wet clothing to get out of.

The pants came off more easily than the sweater. It was a relief to be out of the wet

clothes, but I was still shivering in a residual chill, and there was nothing to wrap up in. The thin sheets of the cot were soaked and bloodstained and of no use. I wanted to take off the wet bra

and panties, too, but there was no way I was sitting around this room naked. Bad enough that I

was down to my underwear. At least I’d chosen a black satin matching set on the off chance

Steph had set me up with a man I would hit it off with. Wishful thinking at its finest.

The date with Jim seemed so long ago, it had taken on an almost dreamlike quality. I

checked my watch to get some feel for how long I’d been here, but the crystal was completely

shattered, the hands bent so badly they couldn’t move.

I looked across the room at the sink, thinking about running some hot water over my

hands to warm up a little. Assuming there
was
any hot water in this dungeon.

I was trying to decide if it was worth the effort to drag myself to my feet to find out,

when I heard footsteps approaching from down the hall. I quickly glanced around me, but no

suitable cover-up had magically appeared. I settled for grabbing the soggy pillow, turning it so

the dry side was against my skin and clasping it against my chest and belly. It wasn’t much of a

shield, but it was all I had.

My heart was in my throat as I heard the locks on my door clicking open. I sat up as

straight as I could manage and raised my chin, hoping I looked braver than I felt.

The door swung open, and Anderson Kane stepped into the room, followed closely by

Blake, who had changed into clean, dry clothes. The light revealed an iridescent tattoo beside

Blake’s left eye. The shape was vaguely phallic, and like the tattoos I’d seen on the other cultists,

it hadn’t been there when I’d taken the surveillance photos. Blake was carrying a chair, which he

set on the floor before moving to stand in front of the door as if to block my escape.

Making a dash for it might have been tempting if I’d thought I had the least chance in hell

of getting to safety. But even if I could miraculously get by both Blake and Anderson, it was

unlikely that I’d get past the other cultists and out of the house. And even if I did, running out

into the sleet on foot wearing nothing but a bra and panties was somewhere between insane and

outright suicidal.

Anderson adjusted the angle of the chair until it was squarely facing me, then sat down.

He didn’t speak, instead giving me a slow and thorough onceover. Not knowing what to say—I

wasn’t going to repeat the “call an ambulance” line yet again only to have it ignored—I followed

suit.

At first glance, Anderson was unprepossessing. Medium height, medium build, medium

brown hair. Not bad looking, in a bland vanilla sort of way. He wore a pair of tan cords with a

slightly wrinkled blue Oxford shirt, and his hair was shaggy and past due for a cut. His five

o’clock shadow looked scruffy, rather than sexy. He was the kind of guy you’d pass in the street

without giving a second glance.

Except for the weird tattoo, that is.

It was on his neck, just above the collar of his shirt, and I still couldn’t tell what color it

was. Part of it looked kind of silver, another part flashed red, but then he tilted his head to the

side and the silver turned green and the red turned gold. I blinked a couple of times, trying to

clear my vision. The tattoo looked more like a hologram than ink, but I’d never heard of a

wearable hologram.

“You’re staring,” Anderson said, his voice startling me so much I jumped and almost

dropped the pillow.

I jerked my eyes away from the tattoo, which I had, indeed, been staring at. I swallowed

and clutched the pillow a little more tightly against me.

I didn’t know how to respond to his statement, so I didn’t. “Is there some reason you’re

so dead set against calling me an ambulance?” I asked instead.

He raised his eyebrows. “I would think that’s obvious.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. His reasoning was far from obvious, but nothing I came up

with on my own—like he was going to kill me anyway—was in the least bit comforting.

“I was in a car accident and then kicked in the head,” I said. “Even if it’s obvious, I’m not

getting it. Please humor me and explain.”

He sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful.

Blake snorted, drawing my attention. He was leaning against the closed door, arms

crossed over his chest. His blue eyes pierced me, his anger as cold as Jamaal’s had been hot.

“Playing dumb isn’t going to win you any brownie points,” he said with a sneer. I’d never

known a pretty boy could look that menacing. The sneer changed to a leer that was just as

unpleasant. “Dropping the pillow might, though.”

Blood heated my cheeks. It pissed me off that I was letting him get to me that easily, but I

couldn’t seem to help it. I dropped my gaze and held the pillow even more tightly.

Anderson sighed. “Please forgive Blake’s bedside manner. Sometimes he just can’t help

himself when a pretty woman’s around.”

Anderson had his back to Blake and therefore couldn’t see the look on the other man’s

face, but I didn’t for a moment believe he hadn’t heard the malice in Blake’s tone of voice.

Flirtation had been the furthest thing from Blake’s mind, and Anderson knew that. Besides, I

wasn’t exactly a ravishing beauty, even when I wasn’t wet, dirty, bruised, and bedraggled. I was

kind of like Anderson, come to think of it—not bad to look at, but completely unremarkable.

“So you have no idea why we didn’t call an ambulance?” Anderson asked, bringing us

back on topic.

I shook my head. “It’s generally what people do when there’s been a car accident and

someone’s hurt.”

“Oh, please!” Blake said. “Cut the bullshit.”

“Ease down, Blake,” Anderson said in a low, calming voice. “It’s always possible she’s

telling the truth.”

“Oh yeah, like this is all some big fucking coincidence.”

“Blake!” Anderson said with a little more heat, and Blake shut up. Anderson smiled at

me, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you still think you need an ambulance?”

The question stopped me cold. My sense of time was completely out of whack, but it

couldn’t have been more than an hour or so ago that I’d stumbled out onto the road, bleeding so

badly I left a trail across the ice. Now I was still in pain and feeling badly beat up, but the wound

seemed to have almost closed itself, and I seemed to be suffering no aftereffects from having lost

so much blood. All of which was, of course, impossible.

Anderson didn’t wait for me to answer. “What were you doing on our property?”

There was no heat or anger in his voice, and yet there was a studied intensity to his

question. He looked at me like a lawyer might look at a witness he was sure was about to lie.

I wasn’t sure what to say. The reason I was here was a long story, and one Anderson

wasn’t going to like. Plus, the more I thought about it, the more full of holes it sounded,

especially if I accepted that Emmitt must have been lying to me about at least some of the stuff

he’d told me.

“I was here to meet Emmitt,” I finally said, deciding to keep my answer simple but true.

“Like hell you were!” Blake snapped. “Hey Anderson, maybe you should get her a towel

or something to wrap up in. I’ll stay here and keep watch.” He gave me another creepy leer. His pants were so tight I couldn’t help seeing the evidence of why he was really suggesting Anderson

leave the room.

Anderson apparently didn’t need to see Blake to know what he was thinking. He smiled

that mild smile of his. “I’m sure the pillow will suffice.” His eyes met mine, and there was no

missing the threat in his next softly spoken words. “For now.”