Circe's Recruits: Gideon: A Multiple Partner Shifter Book (2 page)

The hazmat group soon left, but the extra guards remained behind. To Gideon’s aggravation, the one to worry about had joined the crew.

The thugs Dr. Lang called security came in one size—
freakin’ large
. Muscular, disciplined, and inured to screams and the sight of blood, the guards did nothing more than watch the proceedings with disinterest. The one and only time Gideon had torn a reaction out of them had been on his first escape attempt, when he’d managed to drag sharp fingernails over a guard’s face. Yeah, he now had retractable claws, because destroying him from the inside out was no fun if his changes weren’t visible.

The guard hadn’t recovered. His buddies had returned later that day and beaten Gideon almost to death, back before he’d grown such tough skin and dense bones.

The only reason he’d come out alive—the gray-eyed bastard currently staring at him. The one guy who hadn’t tried to hurt him. They called him Palmer. He was different from the others, an anomaly, hard to figure out. Gideon hated him on sight, especially because he’d swear he’d once caught a glimpse of compassion on the dude’s face.

Palmer, Lang, and Smith were all obstacles to overcome. The other scientists and guards didn’t worry him. He intuitively knew how to take them out of the equation. But those three would be a problem. Dr. Lang had a real boner for finding out what made Gideon tick. Smith, the sick perv, got off on doing as much damage as he could, and he’d taken a real interest in trying to break Gideon. But Palmer worried him the most, because Gideon couldn’t read him.

“Dr. Lang?” Smith asked again. “Would you like me to reattach the line? Or maybe up the dosage of the serum?”

“What is that shit?” Gideon asked, not surprised to hear himself slurring. His tongue felt thick, and his sharpened teeth kept scraping his gums and lips. He tasted copper almost all the time now, and he hated it…as much as some new part of him
craved
it.

Again with the inner monster. His heart raced, and fear blossomed from the seed rooted inside him.

As usual, when he hit rock bottom, Gideon felt Palmer’s dark gray gaze on him. He raised his head and glared at the fucker, only to see dispassion on the guy’s face, which irritated Gideon even more.

Dr. Lang frowned in thought. “Try the blowtorch.”
Blowtorch?
“In his current state, I think the new composition of his cells might react even better now.” Lang nodded to Smith, then to Gideon. “You’re a real standout, Gideon. Do you have any idea how quickly you’ve progressed in the short month you’ve been with us?”

That answered one question. Time had no meaning in this place…wherever “this place” was. He had a feeling they’d left Philadelphia far behind.

“Where are the others?” Maybe if he kept them talking, they’d forget about taking a fucking
blowtorch
to his body. And maybe they’d finally tell him what had happened to his friends, because he had no memory of anything past getting dizzy in the middle of the fight, then this.

He didn’t expect an answer. He hadn’t gotten one since arriving. But Lang surprised him. “Your friends didn’t do as well with their injections.”
Shit. They have Ollie and Rod.
“Unfortunately, we had to dispose of them.”

Gideon felt his stomach drop.

Smith gave a sly smile. “If it’s any consolation, they’re right here with you.” He moved to the cabinets and grabbed a jar containing what looked like a brain. “Think of this as moral support. Rodriguez solved an important question concerning the serum’s effects.”

Gideon stared in horror at what remained of a friend he’d known since grade school.

“Oliver lasted much longer than any of us could have anticipated, though.”

Lang nodded. “Yes, he had a surprising fortitude we hadn’t expected. But, well, the B series didn’t work with his physiology. He drowned two days ago.”

Gideon could barely hear over the rage building. His friends hadn’t deserted him, hadn’t sold him out either. The poor fuckers were dead.

He strained at his bonds and felt something inside him…change. “Drowned?”

“His lungs filled with fluid, just like yours did. Except Oliver couldn’t manipulate the toxin to his benefit,” Smith explained, almost kindly, and nodded to the black crap near the drains.

Gideon worked his forearms and felt the metal holding him bend.

Before he could free himself, Smith ripped the pants from his body, lit the torch, and stepped toward him with a huge smile on his face.

The bastard was going to die a slow, painful death. Just as soon as Gideon could get himself free. With that thought in mind, he stared into Smith’s face, let that thing inside him see the threat facing them—
him
—and heard himself growling.

Lang started. “Wait, Duane. Don’t—”

Smith didn’t burn him just anywhere. The asshole torched Gideon’s
balls.
Agony became his whole world. He saw white while the stench of smoking flesh filled the room.

A few of the scientists gagged. Not content to just emasculate him, Smith burned a familiar pattern up Gideon’s ribs to his chest—Smith’s fucking name.

Oh yeah. We’re hanging this guy by his own intestines, just after I slice his dick off and shove it down his throat.

He growled some more, felt himself bonding to the thing inside him.

Lang seemed fascinated, not at all repelled by the scent making even Gideon cringe.

A glance at the guards showed them finally reacting. Most made a face at the smell. Palmer though, didn’t blink, just stared at Gideon while he suffered.

“Hurry. Get his stats
right now.
Do you see it?” Lang asked one of his white coats. “I saw it there, in his eyes.”

“That smell is awful,” the guy whined. “Can’t we turn on the fan?”

“Yes, yes. The automatic processes shut down after the hazard alarm, or they would already have turned on. Peters, reset them would you?”

Peters nodded and left.

Sick of being on display, Gideon concentrated and reached inside himself. Not sure how he did it, he somehow communicated with that other part inside him. He’d only reached that thing one other time, and then only by accident. Like turning a switch, he stopped healing. Blistered, bleeding, his vitals rose and fell, all over the place.

He heard Lang swear. “This is tedious, Gideon. I know what you’re doing.”

Gideon refused to play the game. Hell, at this point he welcomed dying just to ruin Lang’s day.
God. Rod and Ollie are dead?

“It’ll hurt worse the longer you prolong your recovery.”

He didn’t care. Anything that annoyed Lang and his cronies worked for him.

Lang sighed. “You won’t be able to maintain your state. Your body will automatically begin to regenerate after a time, but fine. Be stubborn. We’re do for a break anyway. Come along, gentlemen,” he said to the others. “Time to see how Elijah and Carter are faring.”

Gideon recognized the names. Elijah Ortiz and Carter Freeman had been two of the big name fighters in that fake tournament. Apparently he hadn’t been the only sucker to fall for Lang’s scheme.

He wouldn’t call them friends. He didn’t know either man well, other than to understand they’d been more than they’d seemed. When he’d sized them both up, he’d sensed they possessed that something he could sense but couldn’t define. The other combatants would have been easy prey. Not Ortiz or Freeman, though.

Gideon refused to heal or revive himself until the doctors left, and he hung in a hazy state of semi-consciousness. His gaze fell on the jar Smith had held. Jesus. Poor Rod. They’d been friends since fourth grade. Two hard-asses with poverty, abusive parents, and no interest in school in common. They’d fought their way through life, until they’d met Ollie and joined his gang. The outlaw motorcycle club had finally made a name for themselves. Gideon, Rod and Ollie had grown tight, part of a family.

Then the Feds had ruined everything. After a few years in jail for running guns, they’d rebuilt themselves. New names, a new career in the underground fighting circuit. They’d gone straight, mostly, except for the gambling. And all for what?

He hated this. Hated the pain, the reminder that though he’d come far, he’d ended up a victim all the same. It was like he’d never left home.

On the verge of real death, that beast inside him forced his body to heal. Unable to stand it, Gideon screamed at the pain. He tried to hold back, but third degree burns and the poisonous serum racing through his system made suffering in silence impossible.

“Loud one, isn’t he?” One of the guards cracked a smile.

“Gotta take a piss,” another said.

“Go. In fact, why don’t you and Yates take your break?” Palmer suggested, his voice deep, authoritative. “I’m hungry. I don’t want to wait ‘til midnight for dinner.”

The guard checked the clock on the wall and nodded. “Will do. You and Pratt got this?”

Pratt nodded. “He’s burnt to a crisp. It’ll take him at least thirty-six hours to be ready to do any kind of real damage again.”

“Give him twenty-four to be safe,” Palmer disagreed. “The last time he recovered from damage this severe, he healed in thirty-six hours. But they’ve been giving him more serum. For all we know he’s getting faster. So we err on the side of caution.”

Yates and the guard left, leaving Palmer and Pratt remaining.

Pratt snorted. “Smith is fucking crazy. Burning the guys balls? Who the hell does that?” Then he ruined any semblance of empathy. “I say waterboard him. Shoot him full of more of that EL13 shit and watch him drown in his own blood.”

“Did you try the serum?” Palmer asked, not concerned in the slightest that Gideon continued to rage, growl and scream as his body healed itself despite the pain making him want to die.

Pratt’s brows went up. “Are you kidding? No way in hell I’d volunteer for that crap. I don’t care what they pay. Becoming a supermerc isn’t worth dying over.”

“Not even for fifty grand?”

Pratt grinned. “Not even. Fifty thou, just to take a few injections?” Pratt laughed. “They said if it didn’t work, I’d get to keep the money and the effects would just wear off. Yeah right.” Pratt was smarter than he looked. “Nothing’s ever free. I figured anyone offering that much to try an experimental drug had to be giving me a line. Have you seen the sorry rejects who took that deal?”

“No, why?”

Pratt’s voice lowered. “They’re all wrong, man. I heard from one of the scientists downstairs that Lang dumps them on an island up north. Imagine being stranded with all those freaks. Jesus.”

Palmer shook his head. “Bad scene.”

“No shit.”

They watched as Gideon healed. He felt their stares, and his inner beast—for lack of a better term—watched them watching. It waited, biding its time. Because what the guards didn’t know was that the creature had helped heal Gideon from the inside out, leaving an outer layer of scorched and burned tissue to fool them into thinking he couldn’t escape.

But he had more strength now than he’d ever had. Gideon curled his fists to hide his emerging claws. Both saddened and furious over his friends’ passing, bewildered at how his life had come full circle, he resolved never to be a victim again. It was time to escape this hellhole.

Or die trying.

Alex Palmer studied the poor bastard hanging limply on the upright table, making sure to keep his expression wiped clear of anything resembling emotion. He had to appear impartial to anything the doctors did. Katie’s life depended on it. But God, it wasn’t easy.

The shit going down at U-Ground Services boggled the mind. The transportation company was a front for an experimental laboratory funded by some of the richest, most immoral people in the world. Man, it just figured his sister would find her dream job
here,
at this front for hell.

On paper, U-Ground seemed perfect. In reality, it used previously-funded government projects that had been scrapped years ago and made serious cash with a security force that couldn’t be beaten. Instead of the psychic supersoldiers the government had planned to create, they’d make super
mercs
. Mercenaries who could withstand bullets, heal themselves, and kill with the swipe of their claws or blast of their minds.

Except the government had abandoned their projects because too many people had been harmed in the process.

Originally called Project Dawn, the operation had involved military folks injected with a serum that recombined their DNA and accelerated new cell growth. Unfortunately, only a small percentage reacted favorably to the serum. The Circe’s Recruits squad had successfully turned into hulk-like beasts with toughened skin, fangs and claws. They helped save lives.

The unfortunate majority of the initial subjects of Project Dawn had denigrated into violent, mindless creatures who killed for sport. And so the failed test subjects had been hunted down and destroyed after their rampages came to light.

To make matters worse, the original doctor who’d headed the project, Elliot Pearl, had ventured off on his own and started over. He’d created new batches of monsters, what he called Circs. The new Circs had seemed to fare better, getting most of the benefits of the serum with few drawbacks. Until the mutations started.

Uncle Sam had finally realized they needed to permanently shut down the horror they’d helped build. According to the classified documents Katie had gotten her hands on, the illegal lab and head scientists had been shut down and disposed of.

It should have been the end of it. Except Dr. Edwin Lang, one of Elliot Pearl’s interns so many years ago, had decided to start his
own
lab.

What were the odds Katie would find all this classified information and let him know? A coincidence? After four months searching for her and still not finding her, only receiving the occasional text, he didn’t know what to think. But he knew one thing—it was time to end this charade.

“Hey, Pratt. I need to make a call.” He leaned closer, his eyes on the cameras mounted above, and whispered, “I’m in the doghouse with my lady. If I want to see any pussy when I get home, I need to do some smooth talking. I’ll just be a minute.”

Pratt smirked. “Go ahead. God knows you need to get laid. Take that stick out of your ass, finally.” They both glanced at Gideon Spencer, who remained unmoving. “He isn’t going anywhere.”