Jenna Black - Dark Descendant

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 inpain. 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.