Blood Kiss (9 page)

With clawed hands, and only one leg that had any mobility, he scratched and kicked in what he hoped was the way up. He had no visual orientation at all, nothing but a black abyss that was going to consume him if he didn't save himself.

The surface of the pool, pond, lake, whatever it was rearrived with the same unexpected, unannounced surprise that he'd plunged into it with. Coughing and trying to suck in air were two mutually exclusive activities, and he had to force his primordial sense of survival to regulate his diaphragm's spastic responses.

Chlorine. They were in a pool.

He didn't spend a lot of time thinking about that. The pain in his cramping muscles was unbelievable, like having daggers driven into his thighs and his ass and his gut, and he started to sink back down before he'd caught his breath—and that was a no-go. He was going to die that way.

Fighting against his body's impulses, he used his mind to override his sympathetic nervous system: Taking an enormous breath in, he stroked his arms out and down, creating an artificial current that swept his torso flat across the top of the water. Then he stopped . . . fucking . . .
moving
.

And let the air in his chest cavity become the life jacket he wasn't wearing.

It wasn't a perfect float. His legs continued to sink, and he had to kick every so often to stay on top, but it was a hell of a lot better than hitting the bottom and drowning.

From time to time, he expelled his breath and reinhaled.

He wasn't sure how long he could last like this. But he was going to find out.

God . . . his cording muscles were a torture to endure, and to distract himself, he relived being up high on that catwalk. The Brothers were brilliant, he decided. Going from that heat to this cold? After the electrical shocks?

It was an engineered environment guaranteed to put someone exactly where he was: fighting against his body's natural responses to certain stimuli and environments.

What was happening to everyone else? he wondered.

Where was the female?

Not the one he'd been on the elevation with . . . but the other one? Paradise?

As water clapped in his ears, it was like the light show from the gym, obscuring and then letting in sensory input. He heard splashing, both close to him and farther away . . . a lot of shouting and gasping from others in the pool . . . echoes—they must be somewhere large with a relatively low ceiling and a lot of tile.

Releasing the air in his lungs, he immediately reinflated them . . .

...and waited for whatever was next.

“. . .
pair in the mouth. ETA four minutes. Clear entrance and far right side of pool . . .”

Pressing the release button on the wire that ran from his earpiece down the side of his neck, Butch said quietly, “Roger that.”

As he strode around the edge of the pool, he tracked the movements of the candidates in the water with his thermal-imaging goggles. Two more had just fallen in from up above; both had surfaced and assumed a dead man's float so they were tight and relatively quiet. Not always the case. He and Tohr had had to pull four candidates out already, which meant there were only three other males in with the new couple.

Everyone was far away from entry point B over on the right. Good.

Butch checked his watch. Whoever was left behind in the gym was going to be timed out in another six minutes. And all this stuff was just the preamble to what he and his Brothers were referring to as the Final Destination—and that last stop was going to be shut down by the sun at dawn, so it was mission-critical that the group who made it through these early tests had enough time out there.

Doc Jane and Manny's clinic was filling up. The mild herbal emetic had more than done its duty, and there had been a variety of minor cuts, scrapes, muscle pulls and burns. Two loads of dropouts were already on their way off the property, and there were going to be more.

This was the thing with a meritocracy: Shit had to get real fast, because he and V weren't going to waste time on anybody who couldn't make the cut.

“Is it my turn yet?” Lassiter asked over the earpiece. “I was born ready for this.”

“Of all the people who could be immortal,” V muttered, “why are you one of them?”

“Because I'm awwwwwesome,” the fallen angel sang. “And I'm part of your team—”

“No, you're not—”

“—living your dream!”

Butch's head started thumping even worse. “Shut up, Lass. I can't do singing right now.”

“It's from
Despicable Me
,” the angel commented. Like he was being helpful.

“Shut up,” V cut in.

“Shut up.” Butch fought to keep his voice low. “We've got another four minutes in the gym. I'll let you know when you can—”

“I'm losing air over here, you know,” Lassiter bitched. “My inflatable is deflating.”

V cursed. “That's because it doesn't want to be around you any more than we do.”

“You keep this up and I'm going to start thinking my enmity is mutual.”

“About fucking time.”

Right, Butch didn't get off on dragging soaking-wet, panicked idiots out of a pool—but, man, he was really frickin' glad he wasn't on the back side of the house with those two fighting. “Sit tight, Lass,” he said. “I'll be in touch—and, V, for the love of God, will you turn off his fucking mic—”

“Ow! Hey! What the fuck, V—”

Annnnnnd everything went blissfully silent.

As his headache tried to kick down the door to his skull, Butch wanted to pop his goggles off and rub his eyes, but he wasn't about to lose sight of the candidates for even a moment. The last thing the program needed was someone getting seriously hurt, or worse, waking up dead.

Besides, he was distracted enough on his own, even with the 20/20 headset.

Something was wrong with Marissa.

Shit knew he'd spent enough time being a walking zombie back during his human days to recognize the numb preoccupation she'd been rocking.

The trouble was, she was giving him nothing to go on. Every time he asked her what she was thinking about or whether she was okay, she smiled at him and made some BS excuse about things being busy at Safe Place.

Undoubtedly that was true, but that was always the case. And she didn't always look like she had for the last night and day.

Maybe they just needed an evening off—and not only in terms of not working. The mansion was a great place to live—the chow was good, and the company even better. The problem was, you didn't get much privacy. Short of retiring to your bedroom, which in their case was a shoe-box-sized enclave with a thin door and thin walls at the Pit, you weren't ever truly alone. Intrusions happened without warning by everyone from the staff, to other Brothers, to mates.

The Irish Catholic from a big family in him loved that.

The worried
hellren
part of him was not quite as enthused.

I need to go on a date, he thought.

“Where are we going?” V asked in his ear.

Shit, he'd said that out loud. “Not you.”

“Hurt. Seriously hurt over here,” came the tinny reply.

“Marissa and I need. . . .”

“If it's sex ed, I could have sworn you two figured that out. Unless all those sounds are just the pair of you thumb-wrestling.”

“Really.”

“You're saying that shit is origami? Jesus Christ, the paper cuts . . . can't fucking imagine, true?”

“Stop it.”

“Says Marissa never.”

“Not been the case recently,” Butch retorted.

“You got problems?”

“I don't know.”

There was a long period of silence. “I have an idea.”

“I'm open to anything—”

“That's what she said!” Lassiter cut in.

“V, I thought you took that away from—” The sounds of the two males wrestling on the up-close had him popping his earpiece out and grimacing.

Lassiter was clearly getting the beat-down he'd been begging for, and under any other circumstance, Butch would have found the pair, and not to play referee. But he had more important things to worry about.

Especially as he had two new visitors to welcome to this liquid-ish round of the party.

And when V came back on, maybe Butch would get some good advice. Provided his best friend could think outside of the spiked-collar/black-candlewax/nipple-clamp world.

Shit.

•   •   •

Paradise thrashed against the hold on her ankles, fishtailing her torso back and forth on the floor she was being dragged over, clawing with her hands. Inside the sack around her head, her hot breath suffocated her—or maybe she had just sucked all the oxygen out.

In response, panic gasolined her entire body, spasming up her muscles and turning her brain into a super-highway of thoughts that did absolutely nothing to calm her down or help her out. Part of her wanted to call out to Peyton, but he wasn't going to save her. They'd gotten him, too. The other half was extrapolating all kinds of bad outcomes.

What next! What next! What next what nextwhatnext—

“Next” arrived with the same lack of warning that everything else had: the forward momentum stopped, a
second person stepped up and grabbed her shoulders, and she was flipped off the ground.

Paradise screamed again in the bag, and tried to break herself out of the holds. Not possible. The grips were so strong, she might as well have had vises biting into her skin and bones—

Swinging.

She was being swung left and right, momentum growing, as if she were about to be thrown.

“No!”

Just as she was released at the top of the left arc, the bag was ripped free of her head. She had two incredible gulps of air—and then she was falling, falling, falling, through a darkness marked with strange sounds—

Splaaaaaaash!

Water everywhere—getting into her nose, her mouth, encapsulating her body. Instinct took over, her senses immediately calibrating that “up” was the opposite way she was sinking. Spidering her arms and legs out, she found that the binding on her ankles had been freed.

She broke the surface with such force her torso popped free like a cork, and she coughed so violently she nearly lost consciousness. In between the racking, though, she was able to get air down . . . and then she was sucking in great hauls of oxygen, the simple luxury of being able to breathe preoccupying her with a gratitude that brought tears to her eyes. That didn't last long. All around, she could hear people struggling in the water, sounds of them coughing, breathing, paddling to stay afloat.

How many?

Was this the second part?

Treading water, she wanted to call for Peyton, but wasn't sure that drawing attention to herself was a good idea. For all she knew—

“Paradise!”

The sound of Peyton's voice was close by and to the right. “Yes,” she choked out. “I'm here—are you okay—”

“Are you all right!”

“I'm right here.” She spoke a little more loudly. “I'm right—”

Next thing she knew, a strong hand had taken her arm and was pulling her through the water.

“I can stand here,” Peyton said. “Let me hold you up.”

“I don't need—”

“You have to conserve your strength. This is just beginning.”

He sounded so reasonable, like maybe the shock of the water had sobered him up. And then his hands were smooth on her waist as he turned her around so she was facing away from him.

“I've got you,” he whispered.

His arm locked around her, and the feel of his strong body behind her made her tense up. When all he did was breathe like he was in recovery, too, she began to relax a little, even though she couldn't see anything and her legs kept brushing up against his.

She'd never actually been this close to a male before.

Although, given the situation they were in, now was hardly the time to waste a second on that nonsense; Peyton had nothing on his mind other than survival.

With tenuous relief, she sagged in his hold, letting herself go. Her instincts remained on high alert, but at least her body had a brief respite, her heart rate slowing, that horrid burn in her lungs extinguishing—

Splash! Splash!

Two more candidates—or victims—hit the water far, far away, giving her a sense of exactly how big the pool or pond or lake they were in had to be. Except . . . no, it wasn't a lake. The water was chlorinated.

A pool. They were in a pool underground—probably not far from the gym, given that she hadn't been dragged miles.

“What comes next?” she said.

“I don't know. But you and I are going to stay together.”

“Yes.” She was shocked at how much his presence calmed her—in spite of the fact that there was still nothing to see, and she had no clue as to what they were going to be hit with next—

Splash! Splash! Splash!

“How many are in here?” she said.

“Five just came in. So there are at least seven of us.”

“Out of sixty . . . ? There have to be more.” How could she be one of such a small number to make it this far? “Surely, there are—”

Four more came in—one dropping really close to them, three others entering far off on the other side.

“Am I too heavy for you?” she asked.

“Oh, please.”

As he switched his grip, her body moved in the water, her backside pressing against the front of his pelvis. She didn't feel anything there . . . but she wouldn't have known what to be worried about even if he had been aroused.

Another person hit the pool.

And then . . .

...for a long period of time there were no more additions. In reality, it was probably just a couple of minutes, but it felt like hours . . . days.

Her fear kept humming along, but with nothing to immediately feed off of, the anxiety began to cannibalize her rational side, all kinds of craziness running through her mind. What if this wasn't a training program? What if this was some kind of . . . social experiment? A body-snatcher routine . . . or an attempt to . . . jeez, she didn't know.

A wave of terror shot through her. She couldn't see anything, and the roar inside her head was drowning out the sounds in the pool, and her body was too tired to process the shaking that racked her.

“What comes next?” she moaned.

“I—”

Before Peyton could answer, she became aware that something had changed around them. The others noticed, too, the bodies in the water stilling as if they were trying to assess what was different.

The water level was dropping.

The choppy surface had been at her shoulders—but was only now to her upper arms, then her elbows.

Her heart rate ramped up once more, a buzzy, trippy dizziness making her head spin.

“What are they going to do to us now?” she gasped.

Lower . . . and lower still . . . until her feet hit the bottom like Peyton's could. She stayed in the circle of his arm, though—at least with his big body behind her, she knew that her back was covered.

I just want to see, she thought into the black void. God . . . please, let me see something—

Over in the corner, a brilliant, blinding light appeared.

It was so overwhelming that she lifted an arm up against the glare, and in its lee, she saw that yes, they were in a pool, one that was very clean and had a nice tile border that was pale blue and green. And then there was Peyton, looking wrung out behind her. And other candidates in the water.

Pushing her dripping hair out of the way, she winced and tried to focus—

What the . . .

“—fuck is that?” Peyton finished for her.

On the far side of the still-emptying pool, a huge male with blond-and-black hair had entered the space—and at first, she thought he had brought the light with him. In
fact, his body
was
the light. He was glowing as if he were a living, breathing incandescent lightbulb.

But the crazy thing was . . . that wasn't actually the biggest shock.

He was wearing a scuba mask and snorkel set pushed off his handsome face . . . a set of flippers that slapped over the slick floor as he approached the pool's edge . . . a slingshot bathing suit that was hot pink . . . and a children's yellow-and-blue floaty around his waist.

Every single one of the soaking-wet half-deads in the pool stared at him like he was the second coming in a SpongeBob–meets–Magic Mike parallel universe.