Jenna Black - Dark Descendant

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.

I don’t know howlong I lay on that cot, shivering, bleeding, sure I was going to die. As far as I could tell, I didn’t lose consciousness again, but my mind wasn’t exactly all there. I suspected more time was passing than I could account for.

Feeling returned to my hands and feet, which was a relief. I’d been halfway convinced that even if I survived, I’d lose a few fingers and toes to frostbite. The pain in my side and my head faded to manageable levels, as long as I held absolutely still. The shivering didn’t stop, but since my clothes were soaked through, that wasn’t a surprise.

What the hell had happened out there?

I remembered my headlights illuminating Emmitt’s face as he stood in the path of my car, remembered the little smile on his lips, and how he hadn’t made the slightest attempt to get out of the way. The evidence suggested he had wanted me to hit him. But hell, if he was bent on committing suicide, surely he could have found an easier way!

After lying on that cot for who knows how long, I finally decided I couldn’t stand the feel of wet fabric against my skin for another moment. Bracing myself for the pain, I made a tentative effort to push myself into a sitting position.

It was easier than I’d expected. Yeah, it hurt. My side screamed, and my head throbbed, and the whole room spun for a moment, but it was bearable. I glanced down at my sopping, bloodstained sweater and swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. Maybe moving around wasn’t such a great idea after all. The blended scents of wet wool and coppery blood gave my stomach added incentive to rebel. I closed my eyes and breathed through my mouth until the nausea receded.

Wincing in anticipation, I grabbed the hem of the sweater and started slowly, carefully peeling it away from my skin. It stuck to my wound, but it was wet enough to come loose with little effort. I stifled a whimper, my stomach rolling again. I’ve never been that crazy about the sight of blood, especially my own.

Getting the sweater off over my head was pure torture; every movement of my left arm pulled on the muscles around the wound. Even so, I was determined to get the wet wool away from my skin.

Finally, I managed to drag the sweater off, dropping it to the floor with a plop. I sat still, breathing hard from the exertion. Each breath made my side hurt. I forced myself to open my eyes and examine the wound to see how bad it was and whether I’d started it bleeding again.

I expected to see a jagged, deep gash, based both on how much it hurt and how much I’d bled. The wound that met my eyes stretched from the bottom of my rib cage all the way down to my hip. Blood smeared my skin all the way around it, but the wound itself …

I blinked in confusion. The wound was an angry red seam, but the edges were kind of puckered together, as if there were a whole lot of invisible stitches holding it closed.

What the hell?

Gently, I touched the edge of the wound with one trembling finger, sure I must have passed out after all and been stitched up while I was unconscious. But I neither saw nor felt any stitches. Besides, if someone had stitched me up, they wouldn’t have put the sodden sweater back on me.

I shuddered and decided to think about it later. I still had more wet clothing to get out of.

The pants came off more easily than the sweater. It was a relief to be out of the wet clothes, but I was still shivering in a residual chill, and there was nothing to wrap up in. The thin sheets of the cot were soaked and bloodstained and of no use. I wanted to take off the wet bra and panties, too, but there was no way I was sitting around this room naked. Bad enough that I was down to my underwear. At least I’d chosen a black satin matching set on the off chance Steph had set me up with a man I would hit it off with. Wishful thinking at its finest.

The date with Jim seemed so long ago, it had taken on an almost dreamlike quality. I checked my watch to get some feel for how long I’d been here, but the crystal was completely shattered, the hands bent so badly they couldn’t move.

I looked across the room at the sink, thinking about running some hot water over my hands to warm up a little. Assuming there was any hot water in this dungeon.

I was trying to decide if it was worth the effort to drag myself to my feet to find out, when I heard footsteps approaching from down the hall. I quickly glanced around me, but no suitable cover-up had magically appeared. I settled for grabbing the soggy pillow, turning it so the dry side was against my skin and clasping it against my chest and belly. It wasn’t much of a shield, but it was all I had.

My heart was in my throat as I heard the locks on my door clicking open. I sat up as straight as I could manage and raised my chin, hoping I looked braver than I felt.

The door swung open, and Anderson Kane stepped into the room, followed closely by Blake, who had changed into clean, dry clothes. The light revealed an iridescent tattoo beside Blake’s left eye. The shape was vaguely phallic, and like the tattoos I’d seen on the other cultists, it hadn’t been there when I’d taken the surveillance photos. Blake was carrying a chair, which he set on the floor before moving to stand in front of the door as if to block my escape.

Making a dash for it might have been tempting if I’d thought I had the least chance in hell of getting to safety. But even if I could miraculously get by both Blake and Anderson, it was unlikely that I’d get past the other cultists and out of the house. And even if I did, running out into the sleet on foot wearing nothing but a bra and panties was somewhere between insane and outright suicidal.

Anderson adjusted the angle of the chair until it was squarely facing me, then sat down. He didn’t speak, instead giving me a slow and thorough onceover. Not knowing what to say—I wasn’t going to repeat the “call an ambulance” line yet again only to have it ignored—I followed suit.

At first glance, Anderson was unprepossessing. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair. Not bad looking, in a bland vanilla sort of way. He wore a pair of tan cords with a slightly wrinkled blue Oxford shirt, and his hair was shaggy and past due for a cut. His five o’clock shadow looked scruffy, rather than sexy. He was the kind of guy you’d pass in the street without giving a second glance.

Except for the weird tattoo, that is.

It was on his neck, just above the collar of his shirt, and I still couldn’t tell what color it was. Part of it looked kind of silver, another part flashed red, but then he tilted his head to the side and the silver turned green and the red turned gold. I blinked a couple of times, trying to clear my vision. The tattoo looked more like a hologram than ink, but I’d never heard of a wearable hologram.

“You’re staring,” Anderson said, his voice startling me so much I jumped and almost dropped the pillow.

I jerked my eyes away from the tattoo, which I had, indeed, been staring at. I swallowed and clutched the pillow a little more tightly against me.

I didn’t know how to respond to his statement, so I didn’t. “Is there some reason you’re so dead set against calling me an ambulance?” I asked instead.