Jekyll, an Urban Fantasy (3 page)

“What did you do to me while I was asleep?”

“Nothing.”

Her laugh was bitter. “Liar.” She felt like a different person—they’d given her something. “Was it the same crap Carter gave me, but in a higher dose?”

“That’s the most amazing part, Eden.” Her eyes flashed. “We haven’t given you
anything
, and yet, you’ve changed.” She leaned forward. “Would you like to know what you are?”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me? Of course, I want to know.” But she didn’t. Not really. What she
wanted
was for Alex to tell her this was all a cruel joke, that they were just messing with her, that she could be the same person she’d thought she was. Before. When her pain had only been the result of a terrible childhood, and not from being a monster whose terrible childhood might be the happiest time of her life. Before she’d been betrayed, fallen in love, and then been dumped faster than week-old take-out. But that wasn’t likely, was it? “So…Alex. What am I?”

“You’ll be happy to know that the majority of you is human.”

Eden flinched. “That’s supposed to make me
happy
? I don’t know what world
you’re
living in, Alex. But in mine, when someone tells you that you are
mostly
human, it isn’t good news.”

Alex fidgeted uncomfortably. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started off with that.”

“Ya think?”

“You are human in all things but one. One we—The Clinic—are trying to understand more fully. There are so many unknowns because each case is so different.”

Eden swallowed. “How many cases are there?” She only knew of three—herself, Mitch, and Mitch’s father. Mitch had suggested that her mother might also be one, but since she’d died long ago, Eden would never know.

“Many. A few. It depends on how you look at it.” She shrugged.

“How about we look at it on a factual basis? I want a number. And stop being so fff—” She stopped the word just before it came out and tried to control it, make it a bit more her own. “—fricking vague.
You’re
the one who wants to talk.
I’m
the one who wants to leave.”

“You can to leave whenever you’d like.”

She rocked back in her seat. They would just let her walk out?
Yeah, right
. But easy enough to test. “Well then, let me go. I want to leave
now
.” She stood, pushing her chair backwards into the guard’s legs. He caught it incredibly fast, scooted it to the side, and stepped closer. “I thought you said I could go. How about you explain it to him?”

“He’s only here for my protection. And yours. You can go now, if you wish. But I assumed you’d want to know a bit more about your condition. Mitchell Turner’s condition.”

“Nah. Thanks, but I’m good.” She took one step.

“He’s going to die, you know.”

Eden felt a stabbing pain in her gut. This place was so full of lies, she could practically smell them in the air. Why would she believe
this
one was truth?

But she couldn’t stop herself from turning. “What do you mean?”

“Without our help—yours and The Clinic’s—he will die. And it won’t be pleasant.”

“You’d kill him?” she asked, her voice steady, her mind shrieking.

“No. We don’t kill people.”

She laughed. “Except to cover things up, right? Mitch’s sister, a few witnesses, Carter?” For all she knew, Carter was already dead. That’s what being kidnapped will do to someone—leave them a
bit
out of the loop. But, in this instance, she wasn’t sure if she cared. She didn’t want anyone else to die, but asking if Carter had come out of his coma and was able to live a normal life after everything he’d done to her meant that she might get an answer. And Eden
really
didn’t want to imagine him living it up someplace far from here, with a beer in his hand and a frigging song in his heart.

“You must believe that we had
nothing
to do with those people’s deaths or Carter’s attack. That was all Jolie Cabot’s fault. She acted without our knowledge or permission. We don’t kill people.”

Eden remembered Jolie confessing what she’d done, right before she died. Before Eden had killed her. It didn’t matter that they’d been fighting for their lives, that Eden had tried to inject Hyde with enough narcotic to subdue him and had missed, injecting it all into Jolie instead. And it didn’t lift the weight on Eden’s chest or make her sin easier to carry. She’d killed someone. And despite the fact that Jolie had killed three people and tried to blame it on her, Eden would wear the death she’d caused around her neck for as long as she lived. Jolie had confessed, but she’d never know for sure if The Clinic had ordered the murders or not.

Lies on top of lies on top of dead bodies
. How could she tell what was true anymore?

“Then why did you say that Mitch will die?”

“Did you change your mind about leaving right away? Sit down and I’ll tell you.” Alex was waving a carrot in front of her—
‘You play along and I’ll tell you what I
want
to tell you.
’ And what anyone working for The Clinic told her had
nothing
to do with what Eden needed to know.

Eden could leave, supposedly. But she’d never get another chance like this one. She knew better than to take everything as gospel. But the truth is often hidden in even the most well thought-out lies. And though The Clinic was good at it, there was a chance Eden could pick through the bullshit and discover some small bits of fact.

Fine, she’d play the good-girl. “I want a soda,” she said to the guard, her tone sickeningly sweet. “And a snack. Would you be a dear and go get me something?”

“It would be a pleasure.” He nodded deeply, showing his disdain, and brought her chair back to its original spot. “Just keep your ass firmly planted on this chair, and your wish is my command.” Unfortunately, instead of leaving her alone in the room with Alex, he only went to the door, opening it and telling someone outside to get her some food. “Regular or diet, my love?” he asked her.

“Whichever,” she said, smiling. “I don’t want to be a pain-in-
your
-ass.”

“Just get her something,” he grumbled to whoever he was talking to.

“And can I have some clothing so my ass doesn’t freeze to the metal chair?” she shouted out the door. “If not, you’ll have to come back and peeled me off of it.”

“There are some scrubs in the linen closet,” he said before shutting the door and resuming his position behind her.

Eden hated feeling his stare on the back of her head, not knowing exactly where he was or being able to see his body language. You know, like if he pulled a wire out of his pocket and stretched it taut, prepping to wrap it around her neck.

“Does he know the command for sit?” she asked Alex, patting the chair to her side.

“Why are you making this so hard, Eden? It doesn’t have to be.”

“The next time you’re almost killed, kidnapped by armed men, and then wake up in the enemy’s extra bedroom, let me know how
you
feel.”

Alex waved her hands in front of her. “Never mind. Let’s just get this over with. Mitchell Turner. We were talking about Mitchell. You call him ‘Mitch’ though, don’t you?”

Mitch
. Even hearing his name hurt. He was a part of her, even more than Chastity. He’d reached a place inside her that she had never known existed. Reached it, caressed it, loved it, until she’d been reborn with a feeling of worth and love. And then he’d tossed that part of her like a dirty sock, shut her out,
just
when she’d realized that she never wanted to live without it. Because of fear. Fear of himself—of
what
he was, of
who
he was.

Sitting in the house of the enemy, Eden shared some of that fear. But it was subdued. Controlled by a part of her that seemed more present than it had ever been—Chastity. The sister she’d never wanted, the world’s worst best friend, the woman men
wanted
and women wanted to murder.

Chastity was not only in the room, the bitch was in Eden’s mind and body, occupying space that wasn’t hers. Not while Eden was awake. And she couldn’t have it. Not if Eden could stop her.

Mitch was stewing in his cage. A slow simmer of pain, disappointment, and—hell, why not—a huge motherfucking dash of plain, old anger. When he’d told Eden to go away, that they could never be together, he hadn’t expected this. Someone taking her was not acceptable. It was—
Shit
. Unimaginable torture. Except he was
living
it, not imagining it.

Hyde was doing a constant push-pull inside of him, allowing Mitch to venture out of his house, away from the cage and the morphine. But only in short spurts. He couldn’t afford to be caught in public whenever Hyde gnawed his way out. Because he knew
exactly
what would happen. And while he pretended not to give a shit about anyone, he did. If anyone was going to die, it should be him. And it would be. But only after she was safe.

“Give the floor a break,” Landon said, watching Mitch pace. “The wood will probably give any minute. You’re gonna end up downstairs pretty soon, and I’m not leaving my drink to go rescue you.” He took another swig of his whiskey and set it down on the table. Right next to a big-ass syringe and the key to the cage.

Mitch stopped. “Let me out. He’s gone.” For now.

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he grumbled. “Why would I tell you to open the goddamned cage if I wasn’t?”

“Because you have a shitload of drugs in your system that might impair your judgment? Not that your judgment would be any good without the drugs. At least not when it comes to
her
.”

Mitch clenched his jaw, but didn’t reply. What could he say? The cop was right—his judgment had been impaired from the moment he’d met her. And in the last two weeks nothing had improved. Hyde was so fucking unpredictable now, Mitch spent at least half of each day in the cage. The
other
half was spent searching for her, cursing the motherfucking world, and fighting off Hyde’s tugs until he couldn’t do it anymore. Then he got to hurry back to his prison cell or shoot himself up again, depending on how bad-off he was.
Good times, good times.

For
now
, Mitch wasn’t all that concerned about addiction. He only shot up when the pain and the pull got to be too much. The rest of the time, he relied on the trusty steel of his cage and his cuffs. Nice things to have faith in—metal needles and metal bars.

Landon scratched his cheek before easing out of the chair, grabbing the key, and unlocking the door. As soon as he heard the click, Mitch pushed the door open, taking a quick breath of freedom before heading downstairs.

Landon trailed after him. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the hospital. I’m going to ask around again.” He pushed mail and take-out ads around the side table in the foyer. If he
never
ate another spring roll, it would be too fucking soon. With his luck, hell was probably lined with the goddamned things. “Where are my fucking car keys?”

Landon shrugged. “The war room, maybe?”

“Damn, man.” Between the morphine Mitch was injecting and the amount of liquor Landon was pouring down his throat, the place had turned into a fraternity house. Without the half-naked girls and the fun of puking. Two weeks of complete dysfunction. Searching for a woman who’d been wiped off the planet by an organization that was
already
nowhere to be found. No signs. They’d had no signs, no leads, nothing.

Carter’s confession letter was a day late and about fourteen million dollars short. So the guy had admitted to dosing Eden with something while Jolie had been dosing him. Hurray for the outdated intel. And there was some place called ‘The Clinic’ that had put them up to it, but the kid didn’t know anything else. Or, if he had, he didn’t write it down. So basically, they had squat.

And Eden’s apartment had been a total bust. Somehow The Clinic had gotten there before they did—probably the second Carter went down. Shit, the only things the bastards had left behind were dust and a few kitchen gadgets. Thankfully, they’d left a wine opener. So Mitch had something to grind into the first Clinic employee he came across.

They’d searched Jolie’s apartment as well. Even if they
didn’t
know The Clinic had already gone through the place, the bitch was too smart to leave anything hanging on the fridge with a ‘Fuck you, Mitch’ magnet attached to it. Her place looked as if it had never even been
lived
in. Perfectly coiffed, just like she was. Or just like she
had
been. Now she was probably in a pretty little urn stuck in a he-didn’t-give-a-shit-about location, and she was all dusty. She would’ve hated it. Good.

And things just kept getting better after that. Landon got canned—his badge and whatever the hell else made him feel important stripped off faster than a hooker’s panties. With no warning, no explanation, no fancy watch, no sayonara-thanks-for-your-service cupcakes. So with
that
went any police resources they might’ve been able to pilfer and secretly funnel into the exciting new venture they were teaming up for.

At least Landon still had some friends at the station, so when the day came that they were desperate for help—as if that day hadn’t come over and over in the last few weeks—he’d be able to call in a favor. But until they had
something
,
anything
, to move on, Landon had decided it was best to hold onto that good will and not abuse it. Mitch had been all over the
abuse
part of the idea, but Landon was one stubborn-assed MoFo. It was probably the only reason he could ignore all of Mitch’s…quirks.

And Mitch felt useless. Or worse. What was more emasculating than needing a goddamn babysitter to tuck you into your cage at night and let you out in the morning?

The dining room table was overrun with papers. Papers filled with scribbled notes of observations that meant nothing. Maps of South Florida with possible places they could have taken her circled in black that led nowhere.

“You’re worse than I am, Landon. This is supposed to be our HQ, not a fucking recycling bucket.” He found his keys under one of the many graphs they’d brainstormed on. The words ‘Why?’ ‘Who?’ and ‘Where?’ written so many times, they dented the paper. Words uncomfortably familiar to him now, constantly passing through his mind with nothing else to attach to. Maybe he should get a tattoo. So if anyone ever asked him why the hell he was so pissed off, he could just point to his forehead. Not that anyone would ask, of course—one look at him and they’d know better than to engage.