Icarus; The Kindred (A Paranormal Romance) (2 page)

"And?"

"Yet you are. Why?"

I shrug. "Figured maybe you'd spill some juicy secrets, make me look good to my superiors, help me get that raise I've been hinting at for months."

"That's a lie. You're a Covenant Assassin. The only place to go from here is to join the drones at High Coven."

"I can see that my sarcasm isn't going to be appreciated, so let's try this from another angle. I'm here because I don't have anything better to do, seeing as how I've already handed your ass to you. Besides, Shelley called out and I'm stuck at this Well until you either
accidently
die from your injuries or you give up whatever it is they want from you. Happy?"

"And what do they want from me?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. This was a transport mission. The guy who has the details called out. But you seem to know an awful lot about this, why don't you tell me."

"Back to my original question then, why are you here? If you don't know the details, and you're not required to babysit me … " His face is swollen, his left eye forced shut and I'm certain that at least two of his limbs are broken, how badly is anyone's guess. So he knows what I can do to him. Why is he pushing me?

"Are you trying to get yourself killed quicker? Is that what this whole dog and pony show is about? All you have to do is ask." I lift one brow, totally thinking this will elicit some sort of reasonable reaction from him.

"Consider yourself asked."

Shit … I didn't actually mean that.

I don't love doing the dirty work. Not when it's up close and personal like this. Not when it's another Kindred. I can handle Death Dealers all day long—they're brainless animals by the time I'm sent to hunt them down. This guy … not so brainless.

"Go on Jess, put your money where your mouth is for a change."

I bristle—
how in hades does he know my name?
And I still don't have a good answer for how he knew I was coming for him.

His equilibrium is off; when he stands, he hugs the wall for stability. "You knew exactly where to find me, even though I wasn't where they probably said I'd be. You knew were to go. I want you to remember that."

Remember that? Remember that when?
"You weren't at the gym because I was late."

The gray walls and the single bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling seem ominous now as Blake inches forward. "Everything you know … " he coughs up blood, "is a lie."

"Childress!" I glare at Blake. Childress pops his head in the door. "Call Shelley and tell him that unless he wants Trinity to readjust his schedule permanently, he'd better get his oversized ass down here and finish this. I wasn't briefed enough to know what to do with this … naffin."

Blake inexplicably flashes a sad smile as Childress walks toward us.

"Naffin?" Childress asks.

"Google it." I start to close the door behind me when Blake pipes up again.

"It means, 'almost an idiot.' Jess, if I don't make it, ask them for the letter."

"Them?"

"You'll know soon. And listen, I meant every word I wrote." His eyes water and for a second it tugs at my heart strings a little.

"Sympathy?" I ask. "You want sympathy after essentially asking me to take you in and then giving me nothing but rhetorical questions and vague might-as-well-be-Klingon answers? Let me check on that for you." Insert dramatic pause for effect. "Nope, I am fresh out of give-a-shit. Maybe next time." I stare at him for a long quiet moment before handing the keys over to Childress and walking away.

I go home and shower, then put on fresh clothes. This was the easiest assignment in the history of assignments, and yet it's put me more on edge than anything I've done in years. It has me out of sorts enough to ignore the fact that my brain is desperately trying to tell me that something isn't right about all of this. I'm too focused on what Blake said, how he responded to me. How he said my name so casually at the end. Not just my name—my nickname. Trinity is the only person I've ever allowed to address me as Jess or Jessi.

I collapse on the couch, pillow in hand, and turn on the television, hoping the marathon I mentioned earlier is still on so I can nod off to the sound of Prentiss, Hotch and Garcia figuring out the minds of the criminally insane.

I barely register the blow before I black out.

They say that there is nothing to fear but fear itself … the unknown.
Ideally they're right (okay, excluding those who had me to fear as an assassin). With my arms painfully bound behind me, a blindfold over my eyes, a gag shoved mercilessly into my mouth and my legs tied to the cold metal of this chair, there are a thousand very specific possibilities for my untimely demise, every one of which terrifies me. Not one of them has anything at all to do with the unknown. I mean … I'm immortal. Killing me ain't exactly a walk in the park.

My parents always told me that I watched too many horror movies, spent too much time engrossed in graphic television. Maybe they were onto something. Maybe if I'd stuck to chick flicks and
Little Women
, I wouldn't be in the jam I'm in now. Maybe I wouldn't have been turned at all.

Yet here I am, shaking so violently that even my bones feel jarred. My head feels like it's splitting open. I couldn't stand up to anyone right now. I doubt I could speak clearly even if I
didn't
have this gag in my mouth. The room is hot and muggy and despite the blindfold, I can tell it's dark. I can feel the dust on the floor by rubbing my bare feet on the ground—smooth concrete. The kind of room you see in horror movies … the ones with the flickering lights and tables full of bizarre, malevolent tools.

I shudder and try to focus on what I can hear. If I can identify something about where I am, maybe I can find a way out.

Air is pumped through a ventilation system and rattles metal slats somewhere above my head to the right. No voices. No breathing other than my own, no muffled steps. I'm willing to bet that for now I'm alone. No traffic noises or the sound of a train in the distance. No crickets. A slow, steady drip indicates the presence of a faucet a couple of feet in front of me. I imagine the walls are stark gray, covered in grime and filth and mold. This might be a basement or a storm shelter … likely something that had once been ordinary, benevolent. I bet the architect who designed it never had this in mind. Then my mind wanders to muse about when this place was new. Maybe a husband and wife had built it for their growing family. Maybe they'd planned on this basement being turned into a mother-in-law suite one day or a game room.

Now it's a dungeon …

A shrill squeal sounds behind me, followed by the groan of moving steel and the echo of hinges. "She's awake," a rough voice says, irritated.

Pardon me. I'll gladly go back to my own place if you'd kindly point me in the right direction. Asshole.

Asshole continues, "Dude, I wouldn't get too close if I were you, she's not that out of it."

Another voice speaks, this one much kinder and, thankfully for my headache, softer. I can feel him near me. "She's no danger to us here."

Asshole laughs, "Suit yourself. She'll break your neck if she has the chance. You saw what the bitch did to Blake."

Ah, this must be "them."

"You call her that one more time and there won't be anything left of your sorry ass to kick by the time he gets here. You gagged her?"

He who? Blake?

"Yes, I gagged her."

A hand sympathetically touches my forehead and my gag is removed.

"Where am I?" I ask, my throat dry and achy. Even speaking makes my head spin.

Something wet touches my mouth … blood … and it hits me how deprived of sustenance I am. I pass out again.

This
time when I come to, a couple of things occur to me: These guys aren't nearly as stupid as I'd assumed because I'm chained with steel cuffs and I'm on the floor instead of in a chair. How do I know they're steel? Because steel makes vampires feel just plain awful and counters any immortal abilities that we may, or in my case may not, have. The moon filters in through the window to my right. And I am not alone. A figure stands against the far wall.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks. It's the pleasant one. Let's call him Golden Boy.

"Depends on your definition. Where am I?"

"There is time for that later. Is your vision clear?"

Now, there is an art to telling someone to go to hell. You have to leave them believing that it was their idea and that they're looking forward to the trip. Frankly, I don't feel like exerting that much energy. "Clear enough to see that you're signing your death certificate by keeping me here."

Golden Boy loses his luster a little and a bitter look flashes across his face. I am anticipating his next words, fully under the assumption that his scowl is in reaction to my threat, when two hands close around my throat from behind. I struggle to turn and see Asshole, sweat spilling down his puffy face.

"Where is she? Where is Iris?" he asks.

Who the hell is Iris?
Still, seems like maybe we can compromise here. I rather like being able to breathe normally. I force out, "I'll tell you where she is when you tell me where we are, deal?"

Golden grabs Asshole's hands and twists. "She doesn't know who Iris is."

"The hell she doesn't! You heard her!" Asshole howls in pain.

How does he know that I don't?

"I'm not going to let you lay a hand on her again. Go watch for Jacelynd," he grounds out, "now!"

So the "he" they referenced earlier isn't Blake.

We're alone when Golden speaks again. "What if I told you that everything you know is a lie?" he asks this calmly, like he's asking about the weather outside to decide what to wear for the day.

Not again.

He comes closer and I note how tall he is, six-four or five maybe. His hair is unremarkably blondish brown, his features refined and his frame solid—your typical guy next-door.

"Jessica, this isn't going to be easy to hear, and I hadn't planned on it being this way, none of us did, but you aren't leaving me any choice. Remember that later, please."

The way he says this makes me feel sick. It has an intimacy to it, like he knows me well enough to know that I wouldn't remember to be kind to him later. Just like Blake.

He continues, "Icarus isn't what you think it is."

Oh great, a religious cult—just what I need.
There are a few pockets of them in our society still, though without Icarus they don't stay sane long. For my captors, it's only a matter of time. Judging by how lucid Golden Boy is, he hasn't been off the drug long. I can't say the same for Asshole.

I laugh because I can't fathom how else to respond. "I have the scars on my back to prove that it's exactly what I think it is. Why don't you take a good long look at them and tell me that again."

He flinches so conservatively that had I not been trained to read faces, I would have missed it. He recovers and slides back into his sermon. "It's poison, pure and simple. Nothing more than a tool they've used to control the masses. To control you." Strangely, it's with the word "poison" that I realize he's addressed me by name.

"How do you know my name? How did Blake?"

"I know a lot about you."

Ugh. Why do they always say that?

"Let's take this one question at a time. Where am I, or if you'd prefer to answer the latter—how do any of you know my name?"

He kneels bravely close to me. "I haven't dosed in five years." Before I can protest he shows me his right forearm, a distinct hollow where the disc had been. He's telling the truth. Had he recently removed it, the skin would still be healing. Immortality doesn't mean immediate and immaculate repair for our wounds.

"My brother Blake was taken by an assassin three days ago. He stayed at Belladonna for two days before being moved again—"

"Your brother, is it? I left Blake only after I was certain that he wouldn't live. The guy is deader than a doornail."
Have I been here three days already?

Golden shakes his head, totally unmoved by my brutal revelation (bluff) of his brother's death. "No, he was moved. They put him in a black bag after Shelley was done with him, but they wanted him alive and weak. Blake isn't normal."

My gut recoils as I recall the oddity of the instructions I received before going on that assignment.
Objective considered armed and dangerous. Use universal precautions. Bite armor mandatory.

"He knew we were coming for him and he hung around anyway. The dumbass was waiting for me! If this is some kind of revenge for taking him, then you can—"

"The rapid detox is going to be a bitch," he ignores me, "but as much as I'd love—as much as we'd all love—for you to recover from this fully before leaving here, we need your help recovering Blake."

"I'm not doing this. I'm not going off Icarus and I'm not helping you find your stupid brother. He got himself into this mess. Find him yourself. I wouldn't even know where to start looking. Are you hearing me? I'm not going off the drug."

"You already have," he says simply.

I don't want to look. I want to close my eyes and wake up in my bed, this being some ridiculous nightmare. But I do look and to my horror I see that in my haste to assess my surroundings, I forgot to check myself. I push up my sleeve to see that I have a bandage wrapped around my right forearm. The disc is gone.

Let me preface this with saying that the last time I cried, I was mortal. "What have you done?" I sob, furious that not only am I now guilty of treason—the clerics don't care much for excuses, so it doesn't matter that I didn't betray them voluntarily—I've also lost the only thing that gave my life any purpose. I may be an assassin, damn it, but I am good at it.

"They'll trace it once it's time for me to dose and I don't—"

"And it will show up en route to southern Canada. I'm sorry, this is a done deal." He comes nearer still, though I no longer think this is such a brave move considering that with the steel impeding my strength he could take me and I've been reduced to a blithering idiot. He touches my knee, something my father used to do. "My word means nothing to you now, but I'll give it to you anyway. This will all make sense. Soon."

"Please, just tell me how you know my name?" We don't use our full names with other assassins, so I know neither he nor Blake could have overheard anyone at Belladonna.

He considers this. "Do you remember much about your past? Your parents or your friends?"

This is an incredibly stupid question. The only thing I wouldn't remember is how I was turned. "Yes, I remember my past. My father is a retired cop in Vegas. My mother died when I was little. Is there anything in particular you'd like to know?"

He's quiet for a long time, wrestling with something, then continues. I dread his next words. "You love thunderstorms, not just sleeping through them or watching from the window. You go running in the rain," he touches my cheek, dragging a tear from its path with a feather-weight stroke, "and you never cry, not unless you're truly afraid, and for that I am profoundly sorry."

I can't breathe anymore. My head spins and I feel wretchedly sick, my skin on fire like it's been doused in lit gasoline. And just when I think what he's saying can't get any worse he adds, "Everything you think happened in your past never happened. Everyone you recall before you were turned doesn't exist for you: parents, siblings if they created any, your friends. Can you explain the scar on your ankle? It isn't very big, but it's right on the bone."

I shake my head because I have no idea how I got it.

"Rest," he says softly, "you'll need it to fight the withdrawal."

With this, he turns to leave me alone with my demons.