Broken Blood (3 page)

“What did you do to her?” I asked.

“Me? Nothing,” Gordon said. But his voice was deceivingly light with the lie. “Not for lack of trying, though.”

Olivia rolled over and muttered unintelligible words. Her eyes never opened but her shoulders thrashed violently several times—hard enough to wake a normal person—and I knew she was in a deeper sleep than just a good night’s rest. Along with the monitor wires, an IV line attached to a clear bag of fluid disappeared underneath the blankets. Whatever Gordon was doing to her was taking a serious toll. Possibly something was being fed to her—like my own dinnertime cocktails.

Olivia shifted again and the blanket shifted. Her arm fell loosely open against her side, revealing track marks left by multiple needles along her forearm. The scars left a nasty trail from just above her wrist all the way up to the crook in her elbow where I spotted the IV line taped in place. For a moment, I wondered if Gordon was simply keeping her under like he’d done with me. Maybe the tracks on her arm were evidence the IV had been moved several times to accommodate a blown vein or some discomfort. But then I noticed her sallow complexion and stark-blue veins, and I knew.

Blood. Gordon was taking her blood.

“You said she’s working with you?” I asked, still too muddled from the tranquilizer to read between the lines of whatever this was.

“Yes, until she collapsed two days ago.” His features hardened. “Not that it’s done any good. I still don’t have the bond.”

I stared at Olivia with a growing sense of dread. Solitary confinement, drugs, heartache—all of it paled in comparison to what Gordon had done to Olivia. There was something other about her lying there unaware of reality. Something horrific in the way I could sense her brokenness even without her eyes open. I pictured myself lying there: unconscious, sick, mentally absent. And I shivered at the thought of putting up a fight—only to end up like her in the end.

“If I give it to you—my blood, the bond—what are you going to do with it?” I asked quietly. I suspected I already knew the answer, but I didn’t trust my intuition any longer.

“To do what you won’t,” he said with a shrug, as if the reason were so obvious. When I didn’t reply, he went on, “To rid us of the monsters.”

“The monsters are among us,” I mumbled.

“What?” His tone changed to something with a sharper edge.

I shook free of the memory tugging at me. “Something my Aunt Vera said before she ... never mind. What do you want from me?”

Steppe’s smile was sugar and acid and reminded me of Lindsey Lohan from
Mean Girls
. In a suit. Possibly wearing the same amount of concealer. “I want your blood. And your mind. And I want you to give both willingly.”

Revulsion rocked through me and I shut my eyes against the wave. “And if I say no?”

“That would be unwise.”

“If I say no?” I repeated through clenched teeth, summoning determination I didn’t feel.

Steppe’s smile remained intact as he explained, “The rest of your pack dies. One by one. But not until I make sure your bond is strong enough to feel every splice into their flesh and every drop of blood as they bleed out on my dirty floor.”

He’d said “the rest” as if he’d already done it to several. But I hadn’t felt anything during my weeks alone.

“You wouldn’t.” I crossed my arms, fully aware that, by calling his bluff, I might’ve just sealed the fate of an undeserving pack member. I stuck my chin out, refusing to back down but knowing I lacked the strength to see it through.

Steppe’s chin jutted to match mine and he bent down so we were eye to eye. “I already have,” he said.

My mouth opened but no sound came. He’d killed them? When? Which ones? My pulse raced while I struggled to accept it.

Steppe’s nose wrinkled and I knew he’d finally caught a whiff of my skin, my breath. He was close enough to reach out and touch. I could see the pulse jumping steadily against the vein in his throat. Suddenly, I wished it would stop. Not pause, but completely halt in its attempt to shove this man’s life force through his body. I wanted to end him here and now. And walk out while the rest of this place crumbled behind me.

The warped disgust that showed on my face was apparently taken for concession. Steppe pulled back and straightened, a satisfied set to his shoulders. “You need to detox before the transfer can take place. And we need to run some tests. My men will take you to your new quarters while the doctor prepares.” He walked to the sleeping man still hunched over the cot beside mine and shoved him.

The man slipped over the edge of the bed, barley catching himself before he tumbled out of his rolling chair. The clipboard went flying, sliding along until it hit the wall and stopped. “Sandefur, get up,” Steppe said.

Sandefur? I stared as the sandy-haired man righted his glasses and shoved to his feet. His eyes were wide as he took in the sight of me and then looked back at Steppe, his hands shaking.

“Sir,” he said.

“Take her to the prepared room for monitoring and healing,” Steppe said. “And then come find me to go over the numbers on the recording we sent.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Sandefur mumbled. He bent over to retrieve his clipboard and smoothed his hair.

Gordon turned to me. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

My argument never made it to my lips before Gordon walked out.

It’s official
, I thought.
I’m screwed.

“Let’s go.” Mr. Sandefur’s tone sounded much more confident now that Steppe was gone. He waited with a tight frown while I climbed to my feet.

“You’re Logan’s dad,” I said. He grunted. “I’m Tara, I know your son.”

“I know exactly who you are,” he snapped.

“Then you know I’m not a bad person or that—”

“Please shut up,” he said, sounding desperate rather than rude.

“Why are you helping him?” I pressed. “Logan is in danger because of your vote.”

His expression flashed from irritated to painfully defensive. “I don’t have to explain my choices to a kid. Now, move.”

He stalked off, and I followed him slowly, taking in everything as we passed through the lab to the exit. Counters full of equipment and, closer to the door, a wall lined with metal cages like I’d seen in that warehouse.

My knees wobbled, but when I looked, they were empty. On the opposite wall was a row of bed with white fitted sheets. They were all empty and unused. I wondered why he had so many of them—and thought again about the voice I’d heard yelling after the explosion. The gunshots. Was Alex here? Wes? Where were the others? Had they used any of these beds before me?

We passed through a set of automatic doors into a concrete hallway and two armed guards fell in behind us. I had no idea what Steppe meant by “new quarters” but I was banking that it had to be better than my living quarters up until now. Especially since, as far as he knew, I’d just told him what he wanted to hear. I was holding out for something with running water. I didn’t see any other option, what with the guns currently pointed at my back. When Mr. Sandefur turned right, I went willingly.

A familiar face loomed up ahead and I hesitated. He’d been the only one I’d recognized during my mealtime visits. Not that the familiarity had been a comfort. He’d remained as mean as ever through all of our interactions, limited as they were.

“Faster,” Mr. Lexington snapped, waiting for us with a glower. “We don’t want her out here in the open for longer than necessary.” He began walking just ahead of Mr. Sandefur, leading the way down the chilly hall.

My head pounded anew as I forced my feet one in front of the other and left the clinic behind. I wished briefly for a meal laced with morphine, anything to knock this headache out, but as we rounded the next corner, the desire vanished. I wanted my wits. No matter how much discomfort it caused.

During my weeks inside my concrete cell, I’d concocted all sorts of images of what the rest of my prison might look like. I’d expected stone walls carved from caves, dirty floors, no windows. Basically, some version of a CHAS hideout placed deeply off the map, filed away under some nefarious-yet-vague corporation.

This was not that.

This was exactly what Gordon had said. Shiny linoleum underfoot. Well-lit tiled ceilings. On either side, nondescript doors all locked tight against nosy employees without proper clearance.  I imagined that farther down, around the bend, probably industrial-strength walls gave way to public waiting areas. A reception desk with a side entrance for deliveries. Maybe even a conference room to hold Steppe’s board meetings when he couldn’t make it uptown during rush hour. The whole thing looked completely corporate America—all except for the giant gaping hole where a wall should’ve been across the hall from my new room.

I stopped and stared at the rubble before me. Vaguely, like a smokescreen over a dream, I remembered the boom I’d heard before. “What happened?”

One of the goons at my elbow needled me forward. “Arma-freaking-geddon happened,” he muttered.

“Who did it?” I asked, too afraid to hope.

The other guard smirked. “You,” he said.

I had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t offer anything more. Mr. Lexington muttered an oath laced with threats if the guards didn’t shut their mouths so I left it alone. Instead, I forced my feet to shuffle forward in the direction the man prodded.

The room was clean but almost as sparse as the last. There was nothing but a sink and toilet on the far wall. As a bonus, an old plastic lawn chair sat tucked up against a scarred desk with only a single sheet of paper and pen. A twin bed—nothing more than a mattress and box spring had been shoved into the corner. That was it. Nothing sharp. No mirror. Probably a good thing.

I took a step inside. The cheap, cold tile on the floor made the thin blanket and lumpy mattress look like a haven. At least until the door swung shut behind me. Then it was more a prison than a getaway.

As the lock turned over, I wondered what could’ve happened that would cause an entire wall and doorway to collapse right across the hall from me. The answer was the same one I’d thought of when I’d asked myself what would happen if Gordon Steppe and I blood bonded: nothing good.

––––––––

T
he next morning, I’d just finished pulling the thin layer of cotton over my head when Mr. Lexington poked his head inside my room. I flipped my freshly washed hair and raised my brow.

“You have a visitor,” he said.

I’d barely opened my mouth to ask who when he stepped back and pulled the door wide, allowing passage for someone to slip around him into the room.

I dropped the comb and stared, my stomach a swirling mess of trepidation and dread and that tiny drop of hope that made up human nature even in the face of impending doom. But as I looked closer, I realized he was unharmed, unmarked, and unafraid. Seeing him now, clearly not a prisoner—clearly one of them—made that thread of hope as useless to me as the SPF in the moisturizer they’d provided.

“Alex,” I breathed.

“Hello, Tara,” he said.

Like a villainous miracle, Lexington left and closed the door behind us, sealing us in. Alone. Just Alex and me.

A thousand words passed between us in a single fleeting stare. Alex looked away first, scuffing his toe and making a big deal out of inspecting my room. “It’s not bad,” he said finally. I wasn’t sure who he was trying so hard to convince.

I looked down at the comb I’d dropped at my feet and wished like hell its teeth were of the flesh-eating variety instead.

“You’re one of them,” I said, and the eerie calm I felt at hearing myself speak the words scared me more than realizing their truth.

“No, I—” Alex took a step forward, hand out, maybe to stop me from thinking all the things I was already thinking. But he halted midway and stood still. The whining of the camera as it turned to track his movement sounded loud in the silence.

Alex glanced up but then looked away again before he could complete the movement. His hands fell to his sides. He looked so guilty I wanted to scream.

A thousand words remembered—all of them lies.

“That day in the park, I told you my plan. I told you everything. The bond, my pack. Did you set me up?” I asked, somehow still calm.

This time, Alex’s gaze flicked all the way to the small black box mounted in the corner of the room near the doorway. I could see the message written in his expression when he stared back at me. We were being watched. He was being careful with his words. But all I could think about was his betrayal.

How deep did it run? How far back did it go?

“Have you always been...?” I couldn’t finish. It wasn’t even about the cameras. “Never mind. Why are you here?”

Alex sighed, and with it went every layer of brick he’d used to wall off his emotions. His shoulders sagged, his knees almost buckled, and his eyes filled with tears. I stepped back, thrown off by his drastic reaction.

“I wasn’t always,” he whispered so low I almost missed the words. “Please believe me. Or at least hear me. I’ll tell you everything.”

I steeled myself against the sight of his watery eyes and crossed my arms. Warrior Alex was a force to be reckoned with, but emotional Alex scared the crap out of me. I had no idea how to read him. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I challenged, my voice full volume just to spite him. “Telling me everything, I mean.”

“I don’t care.” His shoulders drooped a little more and he sank into the chair in front of the scarred desk. “I think that’s why he let me come. He’s hoping for it.”

“Why?” I didn’t have to ask who. We both already knew that.

“Because he hopes it’ll hurt you.”

I didn’t answer. He was probably right and I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing it.

“He came to me right after graduation. I was in Kane’s group and I wasn’t happy. I wanted more responsibility. I wanted to lead.”

“I remember you telling me something about that,” I said.

He nodded. “I told everyone else I took some time off to visit family and get my head screwed on straight, but I didn’t.”

“You came here,” I said.