Dark Descendant

TWO

When I came to, the engine was off and the air bag had deflated. My whole body hurt, and with the windows all broken, frigid air and sleet had frozen me to the marrow. With a groan, I looked down at myself to assess my injuries. My vision swam and my stomach lurched when I saw the huge gash in my side. Blood soaked my sweater and the top of my pants and coated the crumpled door.

My brain was working in slow motion, my head throbbing. I suspected I had a concussion in addition to my other injuries. Shivering, sick, and scared, I forced my nearly frozen fingers to release my seat belt. I didn’t need a medical degree to know I needed help, but when I reached for my cell phone, I found it hadn’t survived the crash.

The door was far too badly damaged to open, so I had to drag myself out the broken window. It hurt so much that I wondered if I wouldn’t be better off just keeping still. Surely the people in the house had heard the accident. Someone would come to check it out, and then they could call an ambulance for me.

By the time this brilliant thought occurred to me, I was more than halfway out the window, and gravity took the decision out of my hands. I came close to blacking out when I hit the ground, but I fought for consciousness. I couldn’t be sure anyone in the house heard the accident, and if I didn’t find shelter soon, the sleet and cold would finish me off even if I didn’t bleed to death.

I staggered to my feet, swallowing a cry of pain. Clutching my side, hoping I wasn’t killing myself by making the wound bleed faster, I limped and stumbled back to the road.

Without the headlights, the dark was thick and oppressive, but the ambient light was just enough to illuminate Emmitt’s body. He lay by the far side of the road, where he must have been tossed by the impact. He wasn’t moving, and the angle of his neck was all wrong, but I had to check on him, just in case I was wrong and he was still alive.

My feet slid out from under me the moment they hit the icy road, and I slipped and slid the rest of the way on my hands and knees, leaving a trail of blood. In the distance, I could see three small yellow lights bobbing up and down from the direction of the house. Flashlights, I decided with relief. Good. Someone in the house had heard the accident, and help was on the way. I’d be a dead woman otherwise, because I didn’t think I’d be able to make it to the house on my own before I collapsed and the elements had their way with me.

I came to a stop beside Emmitt’s body and let out a sob at what I saw. His neck was obviously broken, his eyes wide and staring. The sob hurt like hell, but once I’d let go of one, I couldn’t restrain the rest.

I was on my knees, clutching my side, which oozed more blood, and crying uncontrollably when the beam of a flashlight hit me square in the face. The light sent a stabbing pain through my head that almost made me vomit. My vision still blurred with tears, I held up one bloody hand to shield my eyes from the flashlight’s glare. There were three flashlights, though only one was focused on me. The other two illuminated Emmitt’s ruined body.

“Aw, shit,” said a man’s voice softly.

One of the men behind the flashlights knelt beside Emmitt. I recognized Blake Porter, one of the supposed cultists I’d been doing such a fabulous job of investigating. He was the quintessential pretty boy, though he didn’t look so pretty now with his blond hair plastered to his scalp and the look of raw sorrow on his beautiful face. He brushed his hand gently over Emmitt’s face.

“Keep your fucking hands off him!” one of the other two growled, the one who insisted on shining his light right in my eyes. He took a menacing step in Blake’s direction.

Blake looked up at the speaker blandly. “I was just closing his eyes.” He sat back on his heels and held his hands innocently to his sides.

My head was still spinning from a combination of concussion, shock, and blood loss, but everything around me had taken on a surreal quality that had nothing to do with my injuries. These men weren’t acting at all like first responders to an accident. There was no sense of urgency or shock. No one had spoken to me, asked if I was all right. And the man who’d ordered Blake to keep his hands to himself had sounded distinctly protective. But why would the cultists—any of the cultists—feel protective of the man who’d been trying to lure one of their members away? Did they even know who he was?

My teeth were chattering, my feet and hands almost completely numb. The wound in my side was anything but. I didn’t know how long hypothermia would take to kill me, but if I had to guess, I’d say I was halfway to the grave already.

“C-call an ambulance,” I stammered, since it obviously hadn’t occurred to these wingnuts that I was in need of medical assistance.

“Shut up, you fucking bitch!” roared Mr. Hostility, the flashlight in my eyes still keeping me from seeing his face.

“Jamaal, no!” Blake suddenly yelled, reaching out, but he was too late.

I didn’t see the kick coming until the heavy boot connected with my face, and the world went dark again.

When I came to, I wished I hadn’t. My side still screamed in pain. I was still freezing, and soaked, and light-headed. And now my jaw felt not so much broken as crushed. I tasted blood in my mouth as I forced my eyes open.

I was lying on the road, being pelted by sleet. All three of the cultists’ flashlights were on the ground. With none of the beams directly in my eyes, I could actually see what was going on around me.

The man who had kicked me—Jamaal—was being held back by a third man, who I recognized as Logan Fields, the man Maggie had run off with. It was hard to believe that Logan was physically capable of restraining Jamaal, who was even bigger and more imposing than Emmitt.

I had no idea what Jamaal had against me, but whatever it was, he was beyond livid. His face was twisted into a feral snarl, and he was struggling against Logan’s hold with every ounce of strength, his head lashing back and forth, whipping the beads at the ends of his braids across Logan’s face. Somehow, Logan held on, though his face was dotted with welts, and the uncertain footing should have seen them both sprawling on the ground.

“Take it easy, Jamaal,” Blake said. He was standing between me and the two struggling men, but he looked even less able to hold off Jamaal than Logan did. “You’re not helping Emmitt by acting like a mad dog.”

That enraged Jamaal even more. His howl sounded scarcely human, sending a superstitious shiver down my spine.

Incongruously, Logan laughed, even as he struggled to hold Jamaal back. “You sure have a way with words, bud.”

Blake looked sheepish. “Sorry.”

Again, my sluggish brain struggled to make sense of things. Why were these guys talking about Emmitt like he was a friend of theirs? He was supposed to be the enemy. At least, that’s what he’d told me. But I was beginning to wonder if anything Emmitt had told me was the truth.

“Jamaal,” Logan said sharply, trying to get the other man’s attention. “I don’t want to hurt you, man, but I’m getting pretty damn tired of playing referee.”

“Then let me go!” Jamaal snarled in reply, his eyes fixed on me with such hatred it was amazing I didn’t go up in a puff of smoke.

“Enough!” Logan said, but Jamaal continued to struggle. Logan heaved a sigh, and then … I’m not really sure what happened. Maybe it was the multiple blows to my head, or the shock, or a cold-induced hallucination, but it looked to me like Logan shoved the bigger man forward so hard that he flew all the way across the road and slammed into the trunk of a tree on the other side. And when I say flew, I don’t mean stumbled—I mean he flew through the air with the greatest of ease.

Impossible, of course. Even if the men had been more evenly matched, it wasn’t possible for one human being to throw another human being that far and with such force. Icicles rained from the branches of the tree as it shuddered with the impact. When Jamaal collapsed to the ground over the knotty roots, he didn’t get up.

Logan gave me a quick glance, his face registering mild distaste—which I much preferred to Jamaal’s rabid hostility—then turned his attention back to Blake. “Take her to the house. I’ll hang out here until Jamaal comes to. And I’ll try to talk him down a bit when he does.”

Blake looked at Jamaal’s crumpled form doubtfully. “I think she may have just killed the only person capable of talking him down.”

Logan looked grim. “Maybe. But I might have a chance if you just get her out of sight.”

Blake didn’t look convinced. “Good luck with that.”

I tried to form some kind of protest. I didn’t need to go to the house—I needed to go to the hospital. I didn’t know just how badly I was wounded, but I was sure it was pretty damn bad. Even before Jamaal kicked me in the face.

I doubt Blake would have listened to my protest, even if I’d managed to muster one. My jaw sent spears of agony through my head the moment I tried to move it, and I was now shivering so violently I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get words out anyway.

Blake squatted beside me, slipping one arm behind my shoulders and one behind my knees. Then he rose easily to his feet, making no particular effort not to jostle me. I couldn’t help crying out at the pain, but Blake ignored me.

Behind us, Jamaal let out a little groan.

“Shit,” Blake and Logan said in unison. And then Blake began jogging back toward the house, slipping and sliding like mad, and I was in too much pain to think of anything other than how much I wished I would pass out for a third time.

Blake carried me all the way around the house to a back entrance. He knocked on the door with his foot, and moments later I heard footsteps approaching. The lights went on, and the door swung open.

I was barely conscious, my clothes soaked through with melted ice and blood. I felt I’d never be warm again, sure I was going to die if I didn’t get medical attention stat. Through eyes narrowed in pain, I saw a few more cultists—including Maggie—standing in the hall with anxious looks on their faces.

“What happened?” one of them asked as Blake stepped inside.

He shook his head. “Emmitt’s dead.”

Someone gasped, and Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a cry. Even in my shocked, semi-lucid state, I was once again aware of how off everything seemed. Not only did everyone seem to know and care about Emmitt, but Blake was carrying the obviously battered body of a woman soaked in blood, and no one seemed to even consider calling an ambulance. What was wrong with these people?

My eyes finally adjusted to the brightly lit hallway, and I did a mental double take. Despite my distinct lack of success in investigating the cult, I had at least managed to identify 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.