P.C. Casr - Betrayed

But it wasn't like I had any choice.

So ... thinking of Heath ... I started by remembering what a cute kid he'd been in grade school. In third grade his hair had been lots blonder than it was now, and he'd had like a zillion cowlicks. It used to stand up all over his head like duck fluff. Third grade was when he'd first told me that he loved me and was gonna someday marry me. I'd been in second grade, and I so didn't take him seriously. I mean, even though I was almost two years younger I'd been a foot taller. He was cute, but he was also a boy, which meant he was annoying.

Okay, so he could still be annoying, but he'd grown up and filled out. Somewhere between third and eleventh grade I'd started taking him seriously. I remembered back to the first time he'd really kissed me, and the fluttery, excited way it made me feel. I remembered how sweet he was, and how he could make me feel beautiful, even when I had a terrible cold and my nose was bright red. And how he was an old-fashioned gentleman. Heath had been opening doors and carrying books for me since he was nine.

Then I thought about the last time I'd seen him. He'd been so sure that we belonged together and so unafraid of me that he'd cut himself and offered his blood to me. I closed my eyes and leaned against Persephone's soft flank, thinking of Heath and let­ting the memories of him drift past my closed lids like a movie screen. Then the images of our past changed and I got a vague sense of darkness and dampness and cold—and fear slammed into my gut. I gasped, keeping my eyes tightly closed. I wanted to focus in on him, like I had that one other time when somehow I'd seen him in his bedroom, but this connection between us was different. It was less clear, more filled with dark emotions than playful desire. I concentrated harder, and did what Erik had said to do. I called Heath.

Aloud, as well as with everything inside of me, I said, "Heath, come to me. I'm calling you, Heath. I want you to come to me now. Wherever you are, get out of there and come to me!"

Nothing. There was no answer. No response. No sense of any­thing more than damp, cold fear. I called again. "Heath! Come to me!" This time I felt a surge of frustration, followed by despair. But I didn't get an image of him. I knew he couldn't come to me, but I didn't know where he was.

Why had I been able to see him so much more easily before? How had I done it? I'd been thinking about Heath then, just like I had been now. I'd been thinking about ...

What had I been thinking about? Then I felt my cheeks get hot as I realized what had drawn me to him before. I hadn't been thinking about how cute a kid he'd been or how pretty he made me feel. I'd been thinking about drinking his blood ... feeding from him ... and the red-hot bloodlust that caused.

Okay, well then ...

I drew a deep breath and thought about Heath's blood. It tasted like liquid desire, hot and thick and electric. It made my body burst alive in places that had only begun to rouse before. And those places were starving. I wanted to drink Heath's sweet blood while he satisfied my yearning for his touch, his body, his taste—

The disjointed image I had of darkness cleared with an abrupt­ness that was shocking. It was still dark, but that was no problem for my night vision. At first I didn't understand what I was seeing. The room was weird. It was more like a little alcove in a cave or a tunnel than a room. The walls were round and damp. There was some light, but it was coming from a dim, smoky lantern that hung from a rusted hook. Everything else was complete dark­ness. What I thought at first was a pile of dirty clothes moved and moaned. This time it wasn't just a threadlike feeler I was looking through. It was actually as if I was floating, and when I recog­nized the moan my hovering body drifted over to him.

He was curled up on a stained mattress. His hands and ankles were duct taped together and he was bleeding from several slashes on his neck and arms.

"Heath!" My voice wasn't audible, but his head snapped up as if I'd just yelled at him.

"Zoey? Is that you?" And then his eyes widened and he sat straight up, looking wildly around. "Get out of here, Zoey! They're crazy. They'll kill you like they did Chris and Brad." And he started to struggle, trying desperately to break the tape, even though all that was happening was he was making his already raw wrists bleed.

"Heath, stop! It's okay—I'm okay. I'm not here, not really." He stopped struggling and squinted around him like he was trying to see me.

"But I can hear you."

"Inside your head. That's where you hear me, Heath. It's be­cause we've Imprinted and now we're linked."

Unexpectedly, Heath grinned. "That's cool, Zo."

I gave a mental eye roll. "Okay, Heath, focus. Where are you?"

"You won't believe this, Zo, but I'm under Tulsa."

"What does that mean, Heath?"

"Remember in Shaddox's History class? He told us about the tunnels that were dug under Tulsa in the twenties because of the un-alcohol thing."

"Prohibition," I said.

"Yeah, that. I'm in one of them."

I didn't know what to say for a second. I vaguely remembered learning about the tunnels in History class, and was astounded that Heath—not exactly an excellent student—would remember at all.

As if he understood my hesitation he grinned and said, "It was about sneaking booze. I thought it was cool."

After another mental eye roll I said, "Just tell me how to get there, Heath."

He shook his head and a way too familiar stubborn look set­tled over his face. "No way. They'll kill you. Go tell the cops and have them send a SWAT team or something."

That was exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to get Detec­tive Marx's card out of my pocket, call him, and have him save the day.

Unfortunately, I was afraid I couldn't.

"Who is the 'they'?" I asked.

"Huh?"

"The people who took you? Who are they?"

"They're not people, and they're not vampyres even though they drink blood, but they're not like you, Zo. They're—" he broke off, shuddering. "They're something else. Something wrong."

"Have they been drinking your blood?" The thought made me furious with such an intensity that I was having a hard time con­trolling my emotions. I wanted to rage at someone and shriek, He belongs to me! I forced myself to take several deep breaths while he answered me.

"Yeah, they have." Heath grimaced. "But they complain a lot about it. They say my blood doesn't taste right. I think that's the main reason I'm still alive." Then he swallowed hard and his face got a shade paler. "It's not like when you drink my blood, Zo. That feels good. What they do is—is disgusting. They're disgusting."

"How many of them are there?" I said through gritted teeth.

"I'm not really sure. It's so dark down here and they always come in weird groups, all smushed together like they're scared of being alone. Well, except for three of them. One's named Elliott, one's called Venus—how weird is that—and the other one is called Stevie Rae."

My stomach knotted. "Does Stevie Rae have short, curly blond hair?"

"Yeah. She's the one that's in charge."

Heath had just substantiated my fears. I couldn't call in the police.

"Okay, Heath. I'm going to get you out of there. Tell me how to find your tunnel."

"Are you going to get the cops?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Nope. You're lying."

"I am not!"

"Zo, I can tell you're lying. I can feel it. It's that link thing." He grinned.

"Heath. I can't get the police."

"Then I'm not telling you where I am."

Echoing from down one end of the tunnel came a skittering that reminded me of the sound the science experiment rats made as they scurried through the mazes we made in AP Bio. Heath's grin was gone, as was the color that had returned to his cheeks while we talked.