Jenna Black - Replica

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “Sure you don’t want to just trust the Bishop to take care of himself?”

“What’s going on?” Nate demanded, trying not to sound as unnerved as he felt. But something was just wrong about Angel tonight. He’d never thought of her as a nice person, of course, but never before tonight had he felt this undercurrent of malice.

Angel stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture toward the room. “Open the door and find out.”

Nate swallowed hard. Every instinct in his body told him that opening the door would be a bad idea. Whatever Angel was up to, she wasn’t planning to help him find Kurt. The smart thing to do would be to turn around and march out of here. Go back home and do exactly what Angel was telling him to do: trust Kurt to take care of himself.

But letting Kurt go like that meant letting him take the fall for Nate’s murder. Not to mention letting the real killer get away with it. Whatever was going on, Nate had to see it through.

Meeting Angel’s challenging stare, Nate reached out and pushed the door open.

The lights were off inside, and the room was pitch-black. Nate opened the door wider, hoping some of the light from the hallway would spill in and brighten the gloom.

Something slammed into the center of his back, propelling him forward into the darkened room. He let out a startled grunt as he flailed his arms for balance, but he hit the floor on his hands and knees anyway. He tried to scramble to his feet, but a heavy combat boot smashed into his gut so hard he was surprised it didn’t come out his back.

The door slammed shut and the lights went on as Nate lay helplessly on the floor, arms wrapped around his middle as he tried fruitlessly to suck in some air. Another kick connected with his back, and he nearly passed out from the pain.

“I have a message for you from the Bishop,” Angel said, squatting beside him with a wicked smile and a glitter in her eyes. “This is a direct quote: ‘If I wanted your fucking help, I’d have asked for it.’”

Nate was dimly aware of three masked figures in the room. Based on their builds, they were probably some of Angel’s bouncers. One of them bared his teeth when Nate met his gaze, then delivered another brutal kick. Nate’s stomach revolted, and he puked up all the liquor he’d been drinking.

Still smiling, Angel rose to her feet. She swept her bouncers with a commanding look. “Make it hurt real good. But don’t do anything that will show.”

Nate could do nothing to defend himself. He’d never been much of a fighter, even as a kid—being the Chairman Heir meant that he never had to worry about bullies—and he was already too hurt to stand up, much less fight back. All he could do was try to protect his head.

They worked him over for what felt like about three hours. The bouncers were methodical about their work, and if they were enjoying themselves, it didn’t show. All in a day’s work was what their body language said. Angel, however, watched every blow with a satisfied smirk on her face.

When she finally called them off, Nate was convinced he was about to die of internal injuries, and there was not a drop of food or drink left in his stomach. He stank of sweat and puke, and though he hadn’t taken a single blow to the head, he was dizzy and disoriented.

Angel dismissed the bouncers with a jerk of her head, then came to squat by his head again, her voice low and almost seductive as she purred at him.

“The Bishop never wants to see you again,” she told him. “He thought you’d get the hint after he stabbed you, but apparently that was too subtle.”

Nate could hardly breathe through the pain in his gut, but he shook his head vigorously, denying the message. He didn’t know exactly what had happened here, why Angel had turned on him like this, but he refused to believe Kurt had anything to do with it.

“You think it’s a coincidence I chose this room for our heart-to-heart?”

Nate couldn’t help making a little sound in the back of his throat, a choked denial. No one but Kurt would know the significance of this room. It had to be just coincidence that Angel had had him ambushed here. Had to be.

“The Bishop told me what happened here,” Angel said. “Told me it would have special significance for you.”

“You’re lying,” Nate managed to spit out.

“Not about this. But the Bishop figured you’d be too pigheaded to take my word for it, so here’s a little more proof that I’m his messenger.”

She reached for him, and he tried to roll away. The pain of his injuries rose up in a wave so strong it took his breath away, and he practically blacked out. He felt Angel’s hand pawing at his chest, delving under first his jacket, then his shirt. He tried again to resist, but another wave of dizziness made his head spin.

His heart nearly stopped when Angel’s hand closed around the locket. He wore it under his shirt, and he’d even gone so far as to tape it to his chest to make sure it never became visible here in the Basement, where it might tempt thieves—or even serve to reveal his true identity. Angel ripped the tape off, then yanked on the chain so hard it broke.

So furious that for a moment he forgot his pain, Nate struck out at her.

“The Bishop doesn’t want you to have this anymore,” Angel said as she stood up, easily sidestepping his feeble blow. “He was through with the real Nathaniel Hayes, and he sure as shit wants nothing to do with a freak imitation of a human being like you. And if you set foot in Debasement again … Well, let’s just say you won’t like what happens.”

Angel tucked the locket into her cleavage as Nate lay on the floor and tried to comprehend what had happened, what he was hearing. Trying to find an explanation for it that didn’t mean Kurt was really behind all this. But how else could Angel know who he was, or know about the locket?

“Go home,” Angel said with a sneer. “Go stick your silver spoon up your ass and live the good life with the rest of the haves. The have-nots can get by just fine without you.”

Straightening her clothes as if she herself had delivered the beating, Angel turned her back on him and left the room.

Whenshe regarded herself in the bathroom mirror Wednesday morning, Nadia was appalled. The shadows under her eyes were as deep as bruises, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept in a week. Makeup could only do so much, but she did her best to camouflage the telltale signs of stress. The last thing she wanted to do was walk around broadcasting her mental state to the world.

Last night, Nate had ventured into the Basement wearing the tracker Nadia had planted on him. She hoped for everyone’s sake he’d had no more success finding Bishop last night than he had the night before. She hoped he hadn’t even come close to making progress. Which was certainly possible. Surely Bishop was more skilled at navigating the murky waters of the Basement than Nate was. Surely he would make himself so hard to find that an amateur like Nate would have no chance.

But even if nothing bad happened to Bishop or any of the Basement unfortunates Nate had talked to, she would still have to find a way to live with what she had done, what she had chosen.

“You had no choice,” she told herself, giving her image in the mirror a fierce glare.

But, of course, she had had choices. She could have chosen to tell Nate the truth. Or she could have appealed to her parents for help. Maybe she was wrong, and Nate wouldn’t have lost his temper and insisted on confronting Mosely. Maybe her parents would have found another way out, would have been willing to face down Mosely’s threats in the name of doing the right thing.