Gena Showalter - Black and Blue

Choking sounds. No words.

His fury magnified, and Blue squeezed harder.

Skin shaded to the color of sapphires . . . violets . . . eyes bugging out . . . lips opening and closing . . . then the man’s spine snapped, and his head lolled to the side.

Silence.

Mistake.

Irritated, Blue tossed the limp body to the ground.

He scanned his surroundings, surprised by what he found. Fires here and there, walls toppled and torched, furniture in shambles, debris everywhere, but no sign of John. No sign of Solo. Please. No sign of Michael, either.

Taken away? They wouldn’t have willingly left without him.

Can’t stay.

Had to heal. Find them. But where could he go?

If one of Michael’s houses was destroyed, it was safe to assume all the others were compromised. For the moment, Blue had to operate as if the person responsible knew the names and occupations of the three agents he’d just tried to kill, because only someone who had been welcomed into Michael’s house could have gotten a bomb inside.

Blue had to avoid his own homes, then. Maybe even Pagan’s.

Pagan. Was she a target, too?

He’d have to track her down and find out.

He climbed out from the rubble and smoke. Ignoring the agony of his body, he entered the daylight. Sirens blared in the distance, blending with the panicked murmurs of onlookers. The two houses next door had suffered extensive damage.

A frightened scream erupted behind him.

Blue spun, the action nearly knocking him off his feet. His dazed stare landed on a human female. He recognized her. She lived across the street from Michael. Was forty-eight years old. Had two children. Always hosted a holiday party at Thanksgiving.

The information hit him like bullets, one fact after the other. All useless.

She clutched her stomach, gasping, “Monster.”

Monster? Him? Probably.

Can’t stay, he reminded himself.

Authorities would arrive any minute and try to question him. They would demand to know who he was, why he was here, what he’d been doing, and in this compromised state he might admit to something he shouldn’t.

Blue tripped forward, heading down the street, staying as close to the shadows as possible. Anyone who spotted him gasped with horror and jumped out of the way. No one asked if he needed help. Good. He didn’t.

Tucking his ruined arm against his chest, he kicked into super-speed, running as fast as his broken body would allow. It was difficult to do, every step jostling him, agonizing him, but he’d trained for every eventuality over the years, even something like this. No one would be able to get a lock on him.

He passed a busy shopping center—but not before he caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the store windows. His hair was gone. Even his eyebrows were gone, and one of his eyes drooped onto his cheek. He had a patch of flesh on his left side, but that was it. Everything else was raw and red.

Hideous.

Whatever. He’d had worse injuries. He would heal. Would even grow a new hand.

There was Pagan’s house. A three-story restored brownstone he’d bought for her. How much longer could he stay on his feet? What little strength he possessed waned with . . . every . . . second. . . .

The laughter woke him.

Blue jolted upright, hissing as a stark, burning anguish claimed him. A black crust had formed over his exposed muscles, cracking with his movement. Each of his bones felt brittle, ready to shatter at any moment.

He looked around, taking stock. Dark red walls, a black sink and toilet. He’d made it inside Pagan’s home, he realized, but he must have passed out in the guest bathroom, thinking to clean up before confronting her. How much time had passed?

“In three months, I’m going to be Mrs. Corbin Blue,” Pagan crowed. “Can you believe it?”

“He’s so beautiful. All that silky white hair . . . those lavender eyes . . . and oh, those lips! So lush and red. I’d say they were better suited for a woman, but they look too good on him.”

Her sister’s voice.

“I know,” Pagan said with a giggle. “He’s absolutely perfect.”

“But aren’t you worried about his . . .” the sister continued somberly.

“His what?” Pagan prompted.

“Well, his infidelities.”

His fiancée scoffed, and his admiration for her tripled. “He and I have an open relationship. He tells me when he’s going to be with someone else, and I extend him the same courtesy.”

“What! You’ve been with other men?” the sister gasped out.

“He thinks so, yes.”

“But you actually haven’t?” the girl insisted.

“No.”

“But . . . why would you want him to think so? Isn’t he jealous?”

“First, men want what other men want. Second, no, he isn’t.”

Was that bitterness in her tone?

“But what if he falls in love with one of his affairs?” the sister asked.

“Blue? Fall in love?” Pagan snorted. “No matter how much he smiles and teases, that man is emotionally shut off. But, okay, let’s say he does the impossible and falls in love. So what? I’ll be his wife and the mother of his children. He’ll never leave me.”

A crack in the door allowed him to peer into the living room where the girls sat, sipping wine. Pagan wore a skintight dress that stopped just below the line of her panties. If she was even wearing panties. Most nights she wasn’t. Her voluminous breasts practically spilled from her halter top, just the way she knew he liked. Her skin was a perfect golden brown, bronzed by a reverent sun. Sexy. A chic crop of platinum hair framed a face most men would only ever see in their wet dreams.

She wasn’t under attack, as he’d feared. He should leave. If he revealed himself, she wouldn’t recognize him. Who would? He might be able to convince her of his identity, but she would insist on taking him to the hospital. He couldn’t risk it.

Right now, the person responsible for his condition might assume he was dead. It would be better for Blue—and Pagan—if that person continued to assume so.

Should have thought this through first.

Now, at least, he knew Pagan hadn’t been targeted.

Where could he go?

Who could he trust?

Who had tried to kill him? And why?

And where were his friends? Had they survived?

They must have. He wouldn’t believe anything else.

Darkness . . . weaving through his vision . . .

He had to get somewhere, and fast, before he once again lost consciousness. There was a good chance he wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.

No one playing for the Invaders knew of his other job. Only Michael, John, and Solo did—no, that wasn’t true. Evie knew.

Would she help?

Would he harm her when she irritated him? Because she would definitely irritate him. If he lost control of his abilities . . .

No other choice.

Blue labored to his feet, moaning as the agony became too much.

He heard a startled gasp. “Who’s in there?” Pagan called, sounding worried.

Without a word, he climbed through the window into the daylight.

E VIE STOMPED INTO HERbedroom and threw her purse in the general direction of her closet. Key to the basement, that’s what she needed. But where had she put the bloody thing?

“Light on,” she said, the darkness instantly chased away by the overhead lamp. She—

Screamed, and reached for the blade she always tucked inside her pocket.

A hideous creature sprawled on her lovely king-size bed. Whatever it was, it was male, and big. Really big, both wide and long, its feet hanging past the edge of the mattress. Its skin was red and black—no . . . that wasn’t skin. That was blood and charred flesh. Its body was sliced to ribbons, and it was missing a hand. Several bones stuck out in the wrong places.