Lost Angeles (37 page)

Jax looks me straight in the eyes, with a piercing connection of blue-on-blue. “Yeah, kiddo, actually I do.”

“Why?” Really, I’m almost afraid he’ll tell me. A muscle twitches in his jaw, but he doesn’t flinch or look away. Eyes narrowing, I suddenly understand that this goes a lot deeper than Random Acts of Brutality. “It’s because you know things.”

“Yeah,” Jax nods in confirmation. “Too many things.”

“What things do you know about me?”

“I know that your memories aren’t going to save that girl.” He jabs a finger in the direction of the glass that separates us from Jess. “I know that all you’re going to do is break yourself. All you’re going to do is let
him,”
he gestures toward Benicio, “break you, and it makes no goddamn sense for you to do that.”

“I’m not afraid.” Now I’m in a full-blown staring contest with him, the two of us nearly nose-to-nose. “Not of him or the things inside my head.”

“Yeah? Well, you damn well should be.”

“Step off, Trace.” Xaine’s voice rumbles across my shoulder.

There’s a flicker in Jax’s eyes, the briefest twitch at his water line before he leans away, taking one slow backward stride, then another, and one more after that. He ends up next to Tamsyn, who looks like she’s ready to either break us up or place a bet.

Or offer a distraction. “You know, if you wanted to leave Benny tied to the table, I could totally—”

“No,” Jax says curtly, “you couldn’t.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” I tell him. “Tamsyn wouldn’t hurt me. She wouldn’t—”

“You would hurt
her
, kid, and I don’t plan on letting that happen.”

“I don’t understand.” I look back and forth between Jax and his pint-sized minion. “I wouldn’t ever hurt Tam.”

“Have you ever shot heroin, Lourdes?” Jax lobs from somewhere out in left field.

“No. And I’m not sure why that’s relevant.”

“It’s what you are to them, Lore: a drug. An instant addiction. Nobody with half a brain is gonna play around with something like that. Not more than once.” His attention shifts to Tamsyn. “Bad enough you had to go fishing around inside—” He catches himself, pulling up short, gaze skipping over each of our faces in turn like he’s only just realized we’re all still here. Still listening. Jax jerks his chin at Benicio. “It’s like I tried to explain on the ride over. He wasn’t always a murderer. A lowlife scumbag, yes—”

“Hey,” the scumbag in question interjects, “I’m still in the room, asshole, I can hear you.”

Calm as hell. Like he’s not tied to a table in the den of the enemy. Like we couldn’t turn him over to the police. Like he’s just waiting, watching, wondering how it’s all going to pan out.

“A scumbag, but not a murderer,” Jax finishes. “Tam’s hands aren’t going anywhere near you. You’re lighter fluid on the flames.”

“How can that even be
remotely
true? I mean, isn’t that what sin-eaters do?” I ask him. “Isn’t it her job to help people like me?”

Jax wilts, looking a little distraught. “No, it’s my job to keep
people like you
safe so she doesn’t have to.”

I’m not entirely sure whether Jax just confessed to being my secret stalker or to failing at it. Everyone’s quiet then, even Benicio, but given the circumstances, I think he’d probably do a Joker-style slow-clap if he could.

“So,” he says, “do I get to fondle Lo tonight or what?”

“Or what,” Xaine answers for me.

“No, Xaine,” I say with a glance at Benicio. “He knows what’s inside my head. And what he doesn’t know, he can find out.”

“You heard Trace. Letting that murderer inside your brain isn’t going to do a damn thing for your friend,” he says. “Who, incidentally, is not actually your friend, but a corporate spy.”

“I have to try.”

“That asshole is not putting his filthy,
killer
hands on you,” Xaine spits out.

“I could use my tongue,” Benicio says, so matter-of-fact that I can’t help but shoot him a scathing glance. “I mean, if my hands are the problem.”

Xaine’s eyes narrow to slits. “Shut up. Nobody asked you.”

“Okay,” I begin. “If Tam can’t touch me, and no one wants me climbing on top of Benny for a little heavy petting session—”

“Fuck that,” Xaine blurts out.

“—then you tell me what you know, Jax, because I
know
you know things. Things that could help.”

Jax shoots a glance over my shoulder, and I follow his lead, peering behind me at Xaine who’s shaking his head and daring Jax Trace to offer me up for a fondle. I swear I hear his knuckles crack. Far from worried, Jax crosses his arms over his chest, stern-faced, daring Xaine to say one single word in protest.

“Well?” I say, provoking identical scowls. “What’s it gonna be?”

Jax seems to consider the question, actually consider it, but when I see a slow smile start to crawl across his lips, I realize that he’s about to call my bluff.

“Shall I get you a saddle, kiddo?” he drawls. “Or do you plan on riding bareback?”

After that, I don’t think anyone is entirely shocked when Xaine’s fist plows into Jax’s pretty face. Whatever Jax knows, he’s keeping his cards close to his chest. I’m not really sure what would cause a man to voluntarily take a jaw-jab from a vampire, but apparently some secrets are worth it. He rocks back, head turning to avoid the worst of the punch, but he still catches the broad side of Xaine’s fist. It all happens so fast that I can barely follow it, but instead of stepping toward the boys, instead of intervening yet again, I move toward Benicio.

Jax’s warnings echo in my head as I meet our boy Benny’s leering expression. I don’t want to do this. I might not be able to help Jess. But there are monsters under my bed, in my closet, all around me. Someone tried to
change
me, and I need to know why. If I’m ever going to sleep at night, I need to be able to see into all the shadowed corners.

So I put my hand on either side of his face, rise on my tiptoes—

“Lore, don’t!” Two voices, maybe three.

—and press my lips to the past.

I’m numb, but still aware of certain things: the scent of blood, the warm moisture in the confined space, my face scraping across something rough and cold. Despite myself, I take a breath, then another, sucking in slow lungfuls of fetid air. It’s dark and humid-damp, like being zipped up inside a sleeping bag.

Or a body bag.

I open my eyes to utter darkness and the smothering scent of heavy plastic. I want to flail, to cry out, but my body won’t respond. Worst of all, Benny’s voice is in my
head
.

“Keep going, we’re almost there.”

I swear, it sounds like he’s enjoying himself.

And I
know
he’s enjoying himself when the heavy hiss of a zipper tracks from my nose to my navel and I’m staring up at his stupid, grinning face. A second later, he’s gone, replaced by someone in a blinding white lab coat. I only process flashes of the new guy, because now Benicio’s behind me, running his fingers across my face then lifting them to his mouth to lick them.

“Yeah,” he says, muffling a groan. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Lo?”

I suppose it is.

Be careful what you wish for.

Benicio ambles a few feet away, expanding my view of the room around me. It’s all pristine, high-tech, and sterilized within an inch of its life. Within a few seconds, a team of people surrounds me, cutting me out of the blood-matted hospital gown, wiping down my skin as best they can while hooking me up to a thousand different monitors. There are injections, something they’re hoping will stabilize me, get my heart rate back up. There’s only one quiet set of eyes in the entire room, and they belong to a doctor standing to my right.

“You wanna know who he is, don’t you?” Benicio smirks a little.

“Yes.” My throat rasps like I swallowed a chunk of sandpaper somewhere along the way.

“Ask me nicely.”

I grit my teeth and manage a “please” when really I want to tell him to go fuck himself.

Benicio knows. Knows, and loves it. He’s in my head, can rummage through every fantasy, so I guess we should be thankful that we ended up here instead of somewhere far more intimate.

Like Xaine’s bedroom.

“We can go there,” the sin-eater offers without missing a beat, “but I thought you wanted to see all the bloody bits?”

“I do.” The idea of Benicio traipsing through my memories of Xaine makes me feel sick. I don’t want Benny anywhere near those. He’d only ruin them. “Stay here.”

But things don’t get any better when they slip an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. I concentrate on the doctor standing to the right of the bed; amid the chaos, he’s the eye of the storm. Security badge reads “Takashi Osamu.” Hair buzzed short. Dark-eyed. Medium build, the lab coat not quite hiding his musculature. Instead of wearing the usual doctor uniform of button-down shirt and conservative tie, he’s got on some kind of gray woolen hoodie that looks almost post-apocalyptic in its texture and stitching. It has those elongated sleeves with thumb-holes, which you’d think would just get in the way.

Like he can read my mind, he smiles faintly and cuffs them back. His slim, cool fingers find my inner wrist, taking my pulse, taking my
measure
. That aura of calm transfers slowly, seeping into my skin with the suggestion of sunlight on storm clouds. When I finally manage to bring him into complete focus, his head is surrounded by a halo of halogen light, making it hard for me to pick out the finer details of his expression. And yet, I can see that there’s sorrow there. A sense of loss that I feel even as my pulse steadies and the ache in my throat recedes.

Behind me, there’s the soft click-and-hiss of a door opening. Without warning, there they are, those relentless tiger eyes bearing down on all of us like some predator in a jungle. “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

Half a dozen people in the room, but it’s my guy who answers. The doctor applies gentle pressure, a tiny squeeze of reassurance, and doesn’t break eye contact with me when he says, “She’s alive.”

Caspian Declan draws up short, his brows coming together on either side of a set of forehead creases. He’s frowning, and it’s terrifying, but there’s a hesitant sort of disbelief there as well. It’s like he can’t dare to hope. “What do you mean, she’s alive? That’s not possible.”

The doctor shakes his head. “It really isn’t possible. It’s entirely
im
possible, in fact. There have been no viable signs of life up until now.”

Then hands are all over me: a bevy of doctors and nurses, touching my arms and legs, lifting me from inside the black bag. They heft my dead weight across the short chasm between my grave and the hospital bed. The only complication is that my corporeal body goes and I—

I…
stay. Debatably the most important parts of me are left behind, disembodied, a soul or a ghost or something. A specter
spectator
to my own worst nightmares.

As if I’ve been released from weighted shackles, I’m finally able to sit up, to slide my legs over the side of the gurney, to put my feet on the floor and push myself upright. I stare at my actual body, laid out flat on a hospital bed not five feet away, stained with blood and gore and all the rest. I gape at myself, barely recognizing
me
underneath all the horror those people inflicted.

“Yadda, yadda,” Benicio says, and it startles me enough that I jump. “This is the boring part. Let’s skip to the really meaty stuff.”

Then everything shifts, converting from a pristine operating room to a quiet recovery room. My physical body is there. Caspian Declan is there, standing by my bed, staring down at me. His face is a mask of stoic professionalism relieved only by the slightest frown of concern. He’s a vampire, yes, distant and cool, but he seems curious and caring in a way that makes me wonder why he didn’t reach out to me long before this. Why he waited for the other vampires to pick me up and try to turn me before getting involved.

“The guy’s a bleeding heart,” Benicio answers the question I didn’t bother to ask. “Not to mention the fact that he’s obviously neck-deep in the shit. Hell, I bet he thought he was doing you a favor, keeping you out of the fray.”

It makes sense, I guess. You can hide something in plain sight and people will walk right past it, so long as you don’t give yourself away. No contact. No nothing. He left me right where I was and looked the other direction.

I suppose even the strongest men make a misstep every now and again.

“Some favor,” Benicio snorts. “The guy’s worth billions. Do you know how much personal security you can buy with
billions
of dollars, Lo?”

Rhetorical question, but I’m done listening to him anyway. Moving closer, I stand right behind the man with the golden eyes, peering around the pristine sleeve of his jacket. There’s a buzzing sound from the vicinity of his breast pocket, and when he picks up the phone, I see a familiar name on the screen.

One more piece to the puzzle.

Caspian doesn’t answer the call, instead tucking away the cell with a heavy sigh as he turns toward Dr. Osamu.

“That was Patrick, no doubt champing at the bit for more samples,” Caspian says. “It’s been weeks. Is she going to wake up?”