Touched by Lightning (3 page)

It wasn’t the best weapon, but it would do for now. Unless the Beast overwhelmed both her and Gyda, they were only weak on the physical plane, her mental shields solid and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone get the best of them again.

She glanced in the direction of Leo and Estelle’s bedroom. Sixteen could feel Gyda trying to take control again, her need to leave warring with gratitude. But they couldn’t stay here, not with the threat of incarceration hanging over their heads. In the end, she decided not to venture in that direction. Instead, she took the box cutter and carved the words “thank you” into the butcher block Estelle kept on the island. Gyda fell quiet after the words were finished. It was all they had and she hoped Estelle and Leo would understand.

With her duty done, Sixteen slipped out of the house and into the early autumn morning. She didn’t look back once as she stepped into their future.

“Justice cannot be for one side alone, but must be for both.”

Eleanor Roosevelt

Present Day Kansas City

Gyda frowned at herself in the mirror, searching for the Beast who inhabited her body. Tora, the name the Beast had given itself after long deliberation, was nowhere to be seen. Normally Gyda would have rejoiced to have quiet in her mind, but when she’d awakened in this hotel room on the seedy side of Kansas City with no memory of how she’d gotten there, well, she wasn’t exactly pleased.

So much for holding down that job at Deb’s Diner
, she mused with a grimace. At twenty-four, she felt the need to build a life somewhere, to own something, to be someone, but it wasn’t going to happen because of them. She always could count on either Tora or Sixteen to fuck up a good thing.

She sighed and shoved away from the grimy bathroom mirror and surveyed the tiny room Sixteen had apparently rented for them. It never ceased to amaze her how well her other personalities managed to navigate the world and work together toward a common goal, even if that goal was killing. Since leaving Estelle and Leo’s home seven years ago, she’d found herself in this exact position time and time again, waking up in a new place with no memory of getting there. From one end of the country to the other, never staying in any place longer than Sixteen deemed necessary. She remembered being in all those places, remembered the sense of urgency that drove Sixteen to keep them moving. Her only sign of an impending move was when the Beast prowled in her mind, agitated and ready to pounce, but it’d taken her a while before she realized what her other selves were up to.

When she realized she actually had other sides to her, two other people living inside her mind, they’d begun to share things with her. Memories, thoughts. Hell, they even talked to her when they got the urge or thought she was being an ass. But when things got hot, they took over. Flat-out pushed her to the back of her own mind and went about doing what they wanted.

Flopping down on the bed that felt as hard as a rock, she stared up at the water-stained ceiling. While she didn’t like what Sixteen and Tora were up to, it wasn’t as though she could fight it. Her feral sides had taken it upon themselves to seek out the men who’d abused her all those years ago and Sixteen was hell-bent on making that happen with the eager aid of Tora. Gyda squeezed her eyes closed, not that it did any good. Despite being shoved out of consciousness by Sixteen, she knew what they’d done to those men. Tora projected snippets to her like a slide show, but in graphic detail.

And she took great satisfaction in knowing the men had suffered before they died. That first time Gyda had awakened covered in blood after her other sides had delivered swift, painful justice, she’d panicked. She’d checked herself over for wounds because deep inside, she still feared that freedom was a mirage, that she’d wake up and find that she’d been living in her cage all this time. That first time though, she’d discovered no new wounds and later learned that a small-time criminal had died of blood loss hours before. The news crews had flashed a picture of the man and Gyda instantly recognized him as a man who’d been party to one of her rapes. Horror had flashed for a split second, quickly followed by perverse pleasure.

Her stomach roiled at her secret shame. She should’ve never left the protection Leo and Estelle offered, except she knew what would’ve happened if she’d stayed. Eventually they would’ve had to turn her over to the Order of Themis shrinks and Sixteen had been convinced that those mind freaks would’ve locked them up. The thought of being caged again, of not having some control over her life, set her limbs to trembling.

Gyda’s gaze slid to the black box resting on the edge of the nightstand. It was the first thing she unpacked when she arrived anywhere new and apparently the last item Sixteen put away when she left any location. She didn’t know how much time she had before her others made their appearance, but she also didn’t give a rat’s ass. It wasn’t as though they gave her much time to build a new life anywhere they went. Some days she hated the women who crowded her mind, but at least she wasn’t lonely. Much.

Like a crackhead reaching for the pipe, Gyda caressed the box with trembling fingers. She wanted to dive right into the pleasurable pain, but knew she couldn’t afford to mess up her clothes. With that in mind, she hopped off the mattress and hurried to the bathroom to grab a couple threadbare towels from the rack. It would help catch any blood that spilled. She returned to the bed and shimmied free of her clothes. Leaving the black material puddled on the floor and ritual complete, she snatched up the box and sat in the center of the bed with it. Heart pounding with anticipation, she opened the lid and let out a sigh.

The crappy lighting couldn’t detract from the beauty of the stainless steel seated in black velvet like some kind of lethal work of art. The gold-plated handle and elegant scrollwork gave it an old-world charm. It’s what had attracted her attention to it when she saw it sitting in the pawn shop’s window all those years ago. She carefully lifted it from the velvet and held it up to the light.

It was funny in a sad way. After all she’d lived through, she would’ve thought inviting more pain into her life would be the last thing she’d want to do. But this blade had come to mean as much to her as air. When the memories of her captivity invaded her mind, when the feelings of the people around her beat down on her because Sixteen was slumbering and when Tora’s actions left her skin crawling, this razorblade was the only thing that kept her level.

A shuddery sigh escaped her as she opened the blade, exposing the deadly edge to her hungry gaze. It was perfect and sharp. Tora had tried to stop Gyda from doing this, had attempted to muscle her way forward several times in the beginning, but in this one activity Gyda refused to budge. She needed this release the way a junkie needed another ride on the pony. In the beginning, before she’d discovered the delightful bite of the blade, she’d tried every drug out there and had hated the loss of control. With this razor though, she controlled everything. Where to cut, how deep, how often, everything was at her command. And in a world where she never knew when Sixteen would move them again or Tora would rise up for an attack or something worse, this little bit of control was better than any drug on the street.

Gyda could feel Tora finally awaken, realize what was happening and sit back with a sulk. She ignored her feral self, carefully placing the towels across her lap and brought the razorblade to the scar-riddled skin of her arm. And sliced. Pain and bliss mingled into an intoxicating cocktail that went straight to her head. Blood flowed. Yeah, some people would think this was fucked-up, but until they’d been held like a chained sacrifice to the lusts of others, they could all piss off.

* * * * *

“Hey, baby, you want some company tonight?”

The woman who called out the question did so in a deadpan voice, as though she didn’t give a shit either way. Britton Harper glanced at her and verified the woman was skating the fine line between the living and walking dead. Her hollow eyes, gaunt face and track marks in the bends of her arms told her story in gritty detail. His energy flashed supernova blue before he got it back under control, but it was enough to cause the woman to back up with wide eyes.

She disappeared into the darkness of an alley before he could call her back, not for sex, but for information. He shook his head and refused to feel slighted by the unfair judgment from a hooker. Yeah, his tattoos and muscles pretty much guaranteed people feared him, but nothing put people off as much as his abilities. He suppressed the telling crackle of electricity that hummed in the air around him, pulling it back into himself. He hadn’t intended to broadcast his electric manipulation powers, but seeing evidence of Mendoza’s depravity brought out his protective instincts. And those instincts urged him to put off this sting operation and just electrocute the bastard, save the taxpayers some money.

But he couldn’t be the judge and jury on this case. That wasn’t how the Order of Themis worked. Sure, his position in the hierarchy was a bit murky. He wasn’t on one of the tactical units or street teams, he wasn’t administration and his position as a trainer was more of a way for his boss to justify his presence at The Office. Despite his shadowy foothold in the O.T., he refused to go against what they believed in. The Order of Themis wasn’t a vigilante group no matter what their naysayers might believe. If they operated outside of the law the way many believed, there wouldn’t be prisons overflowing with the criminals the supes brought in every day.

As he continued his deceptively casual stroll down the sidewalk, he kept his attention on his surroundings. This mission wasn’t for guts and glory. As much as he wanted to protect the girls working on the streets, that wasn’t his priority today. No, he was trolling the streets in the hopes of hooking up with Mendoza. It’d taken Brit weeks of buying crap he had no intention of selling or using to get close enough to the fucker to meet face-to-face. As far as Mendoza was concerned, Brit was a dealer looking for a new supplier to expand into Arkansas. It’d helped to have his crazy uncle’s infrequent letters to fall back on when he needed to toss a few well-known names into his conversations. Who would’ve thought having a relative who’d spent thirty years in the pen would come in handy? But it had and if Brit played his cards right, he could send Mendoza to the same fate.

A massive figure appeared out of the shadows of a building, the face familiar since it belonged to one of the dealers Brit had bought from a week before. Bull, Mendoza’s lieutenant, motioned for him to come closer. The big bastard patted him down, searching for wires, weapons and anything else that could harm Mendoza’s precious hide. He could’ve saved the man time by telling him he didn’t need to carry a weapon since his body produced its own, but that would’ve been counterproductive. He was here to appear harmless and willing to push the drugs Mendoza was selling onto his own mama.

“You’re clear,” Bull said in a voice as deep as a well. He jerked his head to the right. “Down the alley, third door on your left. He’s waiting for you.”

“Sure thing, man,” Brit drawled, thickly laying on the accent. “How’s that new car you got? Taken it up to speed yet?”

The big man shook his head. “Not yet. It’s been busy around here lately. We’re expanding.” He turned away and then stopped. “Oh. Mendoza’s got a new girl back there he’s trying out. If you’re lucky, he’ll let you have a taste before she hits the street.”

Brit was lucky the big man was facing away from him because he would’ve blown his cover right then and there. It was hard as fuck running this sting when he was the kind of man who protected women. Growing up with six beautiful younger sisters had made him into something of a defender of all females and knowing that he couldn’t do anything about the prostitutes Mendoza ran, killed him. Nausea churned in his stomach as he strolled down the alley. He had to play this cool. If he went ballistic on Mendoza because he was trying out one of his women, he’d ruin the entire operation.

Still, he was barely able to contain the energy bouncing around his body like a kid hopped up on sugar. He wanted to race to that door, throw it open, fry Mendoza and save the unknown girl. But he forced his legs to walk slowly as though he wasn’t bothered by anything, not the refuse in the alley, not the stench of garbage and not the choked sounds of pain coming behind the door he’d been directed to. He paused, not certain what he’d find when he went inside. A glance back down the alley showed Bull standing with his arms folded across his chest, his head turning left and right as he watched the street.

You can do this. It won’t be easy, but you can do this. Just think of the people you’ll be saving from Mendoza’s corruption if you can bring him down.

He wanted to tell that voice to shut the fuck up. Instead, he shook his head as another gasping, muffled moan reached out to him. He had to see this to the end. Brit sucked in a deep breath and opened the door, proud his hand wasn’t shaking with the rage beating against his mind.

As he stepped into a small foyer that led to a doorway, the moans were louder, deeper. His throat tightened at the thick scent of blood in the air and his heart began to pound with a sudden surge of adrenaline. The electricity carried in every cell of his body rushed to his skin as the hair stood up on his neck. There was no mistaking the smell of sex and blood and death, the rank odor causing his throat to click with every swallow.

He didn’t want to walk into that room and see some poor girl dead because of Mendoza’s sick and twisted perversions. Yeah, he’d heard some things while he worked his angle, things that made him want to rip Mendoza’s head off, but as satisfying as the man’s death would be, the ultimate goal was to get him imprisoned and find out who was the real power behind Mendoza’s empire.

Brit prayed for strength and took the three long strides that brought him into Mendoza’s office. At first glance all he saw was ridiculously expensive furnishings, as though Mendoza saw himself as a modern-day Tony Montana. For a shitty building, the floors were marble, the furniture was all dark, heavy wood with what were no doubt priceless—and ugly—pieces of artwork on the walls and tables. The bastard had a wall of monitors showing parts of the city that were known as Mendoza’s territory, the girls who worked for him strolling in and out of line of sight, the pushers on the street dealing in back alleys, all of it played before Mendoza’s eyes. The bastard was better set up than Brit and the O.T. had realized.