Jenna Black - Dark Descendant

Still easily holding me off the floor, he stepped around the cot so he could slam me against the wall so hard I saw stars. Or maybe the stars were just because I couldn’t breathe. My struggles weakened as my brain starved for oxygen.

Anderson came to stand beside Jamaal, his expression one of gentle concern. Concern for Jamaal, that is, not for me.

“She can’t talk while you’re choking her.”

Jamaal bared his teeth in a feral smile. “That’s a shame.” He pulled me forward then slammed me into the wall again to show how heartbroken he was. I could hardly believe I hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen yet.

“We need to get answers out of her,” Anderson said, still in that mild voice.

“You can get answers out of her when I’m finished!” Jamaal snarled, and the look on Anderson’s face hardened.

“I’m giving you an order, Jamaal. Let go. Now!”

“Fuck you!”

Across the room, Blake cursed again. The whole mild-mannered leader act Anderson had been putting on suddenly dissolved. His back straightened, his eyes flashed with anger, and his face took on an expression that said someone was about to die—or wish for death.

“Wrong answer,” Anderson said, his voice dropping about an octave and filled with a power that made my teeth ache.

My vision was beginning to fade around the edges, but I saw Anderson reach out and clap his hand on Jamaal’s shoulder, right at the base of his neck. The hatred faded from Jamaal’s face as his eyes widened in what looked like alarm, though I couldn’t see why. Then suddenly, he let go of me and screamed.

My feet hit the floor. I crumpled to my knees, gagging and coughing as I tried to draw air into my lungs.

Jamaal collapsed, too, trying to pull away from Anderson’s grip as he did. Anderson must have been stronger than he looked, maintaining his grip as he lowered himself into a crouch so he could keep his hand on Jamaal’s shoulder. Anderson’s face had turned to stone, all expression bleeding away as Jamaal continued to scream in obvious pain. In that moment, Anderson looked almost inhuman, an ice-cold predator who could kill without hesitation or remorse.

Blake appeared in the periphery of my vision. He moved with caution, but he didn’t look scared or surprised by whatever Anderson was doing. “Go easy on him, boss,” he said with a wince of sympathy. “He just lost his best friend.”

The expression on Anderson’s face thawed, a hint of humanity returning to his eyes, but he didn’t let go. Jamaal’s screams were weakening. What the hell was Anderson doing that caused such intense pain? His grip didn’t even look all that tight.

“He’ll pass out soon enough,” Anderson said, and moments later Jamaal’s whole body went limp. Anderson let go of his shoulder, and even on Jamaal’s coffee-colored skin, I could see the bright red hand mark where Anderson had been touching him.

“Sorry, my friend,” Anderson said so softly I barely heard him. The stone-cold killer was gone, and the mild-mannered human being was back. He stood up and looked at Blake. “Put him next door,” he said. “Then gather the troops in my study.”

Blake didn’t look happy with the order, but he complied, gently picking up Jamaal’s limp body and carrying him out of the room. Anderson looked down his nose at me. I was still coughing, but the gagging seemed to have stopped, and my vision had cleared.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he told me. “Think carefully about your story and whether you’d like to amend it. Unless you’re a very skilled actress, I’m pretty sure you were not familiar with the power I just used against Jamaal. If I come back later and don’t like your answers, I’ll let you experience it firsthand.”

I swallowed hard. So much for the “good cop” act.

Without a backward glance, he marched out the door, slamming it behind him. Once again, the locks clicked shut.

No doubt about it. I was in deep shit.

My throat hurt everytime I swallowed, but other than that, I didn’t feel as bad as I expected after nearly being choked to death. Especially considering that beforehand I’d been seriously injured in a car accident, then been kicked in the face, then nearly perished from exposure.

Do you still think you need an ambulance? Anderson’s voice echoed in my head.

Rubbing my bruised throat, I sat down on the edge of the cot and tried to absorb everything I’d seen and heard tonight.

Emmitt, appearing in front of my car from out of nowhere.

Logan, lifting Jamaal off his feet and flinging him all the way across the road and into the trees beyond.

My wound sealing itself with invisible stitches.

Anderson’s fire-red handprint on Jamaal’s shoulder.

I’ve never been much into all that woo-woo stuff, but either I was having the longest, weirdest dream in the history of mankind, or something decidedly woowoo was going on.

I hoped for the former, but suspected the latter.

I looked down at the gash in my side and was only dully surprised to see the entire line scabbed over. I imagined the Twilight Zone music playing in the background, then shook off the thought before I made myself hysterical.

I decided to make a cursory examination of my cell. I tried the door, of course, but the sound of those locks clicking shut had been no illusion. I tried the sink and discovered that yes, blessedly, I could get hot water. I picked up my bloody, ruined sweater, rinsed out as much of the blood as possible, then used the sleeve like a washcloth to clean myself up.

I was painfully aware that Anderson was planning to come back and question me later. The kid gloves were going to come off, but I couldn’t figure out what he wanted to hear. If I thought about how our next interview was going to go, all I would do was send myself into a panic. Instead I stripped the sheets off the cot and rinsed them in the sink. Then I flipped the mattress over and was relieved to find I hadn’t soaked it through. With nothing left to do, I reluctantly lay down, terrified of being alone with my thoughts.

I hadn’t been lying down for more than five minutes when I heard footsteps out in the hall again, and I was struck with a far more virulent terror. I shot to my feet, heart pounding and adrenaline flooding my system as I waited in dread for Anderson to finally carry out his threat.

But when the door opened, it wasn’t Anderson after all.

The word that had first come to my mind when Emmitt had shown me a picture of Maggie Burnham was statuesque . I guessed her height at about five-eleven, and she was built like an athlete. She had absolutely gorgeous curly auburn hair, and a pretty, heart-shaped face.

She wasn’t looking her best tonight, though. Not with those red-rimmed eyes and the sorrowful droop of her shoulders. I had no clue what her real relationship with Emmitt had been, but it was clear she was grieving.

“Hi,” she said, smiling weakly. “I’m Maggie.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said automatically, though I mentally grimaced at the empty pleasantry. “I’m Nikki Glass.”

She nodded. “I thought maybe you could use this.” She held out a plush terrycloth robe, and I was so happy I could have hugged her. Considering that she was mourning Emmitt and that I’d been the instrument of his death, I wouldn’t have been surprised if her first move had been to slap me.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the robe from her outstretched hand. My voice came out a little scratchy. I told myself that it was an aftereffect of Jamaal’s attempt to choke me to death, not a sign that I was about to burst into tears at the first hint of kindness. Cynically, I couldn’t help wondering if she’d taken up the mantle of “good cop” now that Anderson had dispensed with it.