Last Kiss Goodnight (Otherworld Assassin) (14 page)

Again, he offered no response.

“Have you prepared your mind for what’s about to happen?” she asked.

The reminder flooded him with apprehension. The circus, due to start.

“Just do what you’re told,” she said. “You’ll hate yourself for it, but you’ll be better off. Trust me.”

•   •   •

He could not have prepared himself for
this,
Solo thought.

For fifteen dollars a head, one human after another was allowed to parade through the clearing. The humans would stop in front of each cage and study the starving otherworlders inside while eating cotton candy, melting ice cream, hot dogs, and pretzels laced with addictive chemicals.

Did they know they were being drugged?

Some would stare with awe and wonder. Some would offer a critique of flaws. Some would throw pieces of grain at the captives. Solo allowed those pieces to bounce off him, letting them fall at his feet, but he watched as the others picked them up and ate, desperate enough to take what they could get, when they could get it, despite what Vika had fed them.

He should have shared his bounty with all of them, he realized with a flicker of guilt.

Children ran through every so often, laughing, tossing pebbles rather than food, before being chased off by the armed guards. That certainly explained where the rocks hurtled at Vika had come from.

“Dance for me, Pearls,” one man begged Criss while the two males with him nodded eagerly.

Never once uttering a derogatory comment or insult, Criss danced, lifting her arms over her head and swaying her hips. The men moaned and groaned their approval, even though her every motion was made while she gritted her teeth and hate shone in her eyes.

Just do what you’re told. You’ll hate yourself for it, but you’ll be better off,
she’d said.
Trust me.

Even now, he believed the opposite. If you hated yourself for your actions, you were never better off.

Only Kitten challenged the humans. She spat curses, as Criss had said she would, and tried to scratch and bite anyone who stepped too close.

Some of the female viewers asked the male otherworlders to lift their loincloths, and they, too, obeyed. Even the Targon, who wore his customary
grin—though it was now cut by shards of broken glass.

No one asked Solo to do anything. He’d partially morphed, his skin a light shade of red, his eyes probably glowing, and his fangs and claws at half-mast. However, those with stronger stomachs stared at him with morbid curiosity until realizing he would not be the one to first lower his gaze, and that the fury blazing through him might give him the strength he needed to burst through the bars and do some damage before the guards could shoot him.

He heard murmurs of “ugly” and “hideous,” just as he’d heard all his life, only now there was nothing he could do about it. He just had to take it. To react was to pass out, and to pass out was to be far more vulnerable, as he’d already realized, and this was not a place or time to welcome any type of vulnerability.

“I bet you want to kill these people,” Dr. E said. He was paler than before, truly pallid, and shakier. “I know I do.”

The damage Solo could have done at any other time . . .

“You should memorize their faces, and when you get out of here, you should hunt the offenders down and give them a little taste of your pain.”

“There’s another way, you know,” X said before he could reply. Always he was there with his kindness and compassion, doing his best to build Solo up and encourage him. His color had already returned.

“Don’t you dare feed him another line about forgiveness. We can’t forgive this kind of behavior.” Always
Dr. E was there with his flamethrower, determined to enrage Solo further.

Well, it was working.

“He can, yes,” X said, “but that’s not what I was going to say. This is a terrible situation, but there is a light in the darkness if you’ll look for it rather than keeping your eyes closed.”

“My eyes aren’t closed,” he growled softly. They were open, and they were peering at the human couple who’d just stopped in front of him, gaping. Why weren’t they disgusted by the conditions living beings were forced to endure? Why weren’t—

His gazed snagged on a cascade of blond hair, just behind the pair. He focused. Peeking out from behind the far cage, watching him, expression concerned and guilt-ridden, was Vika.

Her lip was split in the center, and there was a fresh bruise on her cheek.

“X,” he snarled. X hadn’t saved her. She
had
been beaten.

The human male tried to impress the female by stretching out his arm, as if he were brave enough to pet a beast like Solo.

Urges he’d battled since waking up in this cage suddenly overcame him. The urge to hurt those who wanted to hurt him. The urge to repay cruelty with cruelty. And yet, there was a new one. The urge to get to Vika. To protect.

With lightning-fast reflexes, Solo reached out, grabbed the male by the wrist, and twisted. The bones instantly broke.

A howl of pain rang out.

One of the guards surged forward, his gun already drawn.

Solo could handle being shot. Over the years he’d been shot, stabbed, beaten, and anything else the human mind could think up. Still. He shouldn’t have done this, he realized. He should have remained stoic. Even without the human, he couldn’t yet get to Vika.

Now he released the man and held his hands up, palms out, all innocence.

“I demand a refund!” the man shouted as fat tears ran down his cheeks. “Ow, ow, ow, and damages! And all my medical bills paid, ow, ow, ow. I was told I wouldn’t be harmed, but look at this. It’s crushed! Ow, ow, ow. False advertising is a crime.”

Scowling, the guard replaced his gun to examine the human’s injury.

“Uh-oh. You’re in trouble now,” Dr. E said with a laugh. Health and vitality was returning to his cheeks. He was no longer shaky.

“Focus on the light,” X said.
He
was now pale.
He
was now shaky.

There was no light in a situation like this.

The guard sent the human on his way, probably to a medic, and approached the cage. “I hope you realize the money he’s now owed is going to be taken out of your hide.” With that, he jabbed the button Vika had once pressed—the button that brought paralysis.

Solo roared as warmth spread from his wrists to the rest of his body, exactly like the times he’d gotten angry, only this warmth was stronger and moved far more
quickly. A river that had just broken free of a dam. He fought the sudden surge of weakness . . . fought the incoming vulnerability. . . .

He lost.

The last thing he saw before a heavy weight tugged at his eyelids was Vika, her hair wild, her eyes glittering with a strange sort of madness. She was rushing toward him, determined to get to him—until the second guard grabbed her by the waist and jerked her to a stop.

Solo unleashed another roar, tried to reach for her, and failed.

Eleven

Do not gloat over me, my enemy! Though I have fallen, I will rise.

—MICAH 7:8

A
ROUND TWO O’CLOCK IN
the morning, the moon was a mere hook of gold in the black, star-studded sky. All of the circus patrons had gone home, and now, all of the performers were gathering around a great, blazing bonfire in the center of the imprisoned otherworlders.

Vika shook with the force of her fear. Not for herself, not this time, but for the newcomer.

Blue Eyes, she’d begun to call him. The fifteen-dollar fee her father had lost coupled with the money for “damages” and the irritation of having to deal with an irate human were to be taken out of Blue Eyes’s flesh.

The male had not roused since the drugs had hit his system, but only because he’d been given a fresh dose every hour. Her father had wanted him docile until the right time, which just happened to be when all of his employees and Vika’s charges could witness Blue Eyes’s punishment.

The performers had brought lawn chairs and now placed them in front of the cages. There was Rasa, the
elf-size bearded lady with hissing snakes growing from her chin. There was the sword eater, the she-male with four hands, the conjoined gymnasts, and seemingly a thousand others.

Blue Eyes was on his knees, slumped over, his cuffs bound to hooks protruding from a man-made stump. The fire blazed beside him, casting rays of gold over the deeply bronzed skin of his bare back. There was no longer any hint of red. But there would be. All too soon, there would be, and it would be red of a different sort.

Jecis kicked him in the side to wake him, and cheers abounded.

As Blue Eyes lifted his head, he blinked rapidly, perhaps fighting to focus. Jecis walked around him with arms lifted high. In front of the otherworlder, he stopped, turned to face his people.

“This man—this disgusting
creature
—dared to touch a human without permission,” her father called, riling the crowd. Vika continued to read his lips. “He had every intention of causing irreparable damage—
after
he had been warned to behave.”

A chorus of “boo” swept through the masses, the vibrations nearly rocking her off her feet. She surveyed the people she’d grown up with, hoping, praying to find one sympathetic face, that someone, anyone, would stand up and shout, “This is wrong. I won’t let you hurt that man.” Someone with the strength to force her father to back down.

Instead, she discovered malicious glee and vicious enjoyment. Expressions all the more maniacal because everyone still wore their performance costumes, having
come here directly after the last show. There were sequins, feathers, short fluffy skirts, lace and fishnets, oiled chests and pants practically painted on.

These people were outcasts, accepted only for how they entertained. Now,
they
wanted to be entertained. Actually, they probably felt as though they deserved a good show. Jecis had charged admission, after all.

The muscles in Blue Eyes’s back knotted and his spine straightened. He scanned the area, suddenly alert. Someone threw a handful of popcorn at him, the fluffy yellow kernels raining over him.

Fury blazed in his eyes . . . a fire far hotter than the flames crackling beside him.

Please,
she projected at Jecis.
Don’t do this.

“Let this be a lesson to all,” her father continued, turning . . . turning . . . to face everyone in the assembly. He was saying more, but his back was currently to Vika, so she couldn’t read his lips. The crowd liked it, whatever threat or insult he’d issued, because laughter erupted.

Then he was facing her again, and he was saying, “—know that to disobey is to suffer.”

Cheers joined the laughter. Her stomach churned. And as much turmoil as she’d reacted to lately, she felt as if she could have made butter with it.

As her father stretched out his hand, as Matas slammed the handle of a whip against his palm, Vika shrank back into the night’s gloom. Jecis wanted
her
blood, and if he caught sight of her, she would get a whipping, too.

Something strange had happened today. A few
minutes after Matas had left her trailer, the lights had flickered again. She had opened the door, expecting to have to deal with him a second time.

Instead, her father had been there. Scowling. Enraged.

“You dared disobey me? Dared place yourself in danger, when you know you’re the most precious thing in the world to me?”

He shoved her backward, stormed in after her, and slapped her.

“I—I’m sorry,” she’d managed.

“Why would you do this to me?”
Slap
. “Why would you force me to hurt you like this?”
Slap.

But that time,
he
had yelped in pain. Him. Not her. As if her skin had somehow cut at him.

Then a voice had whispered inside her mind. An actual voice, the first sound she’d heard in years. Shocked to her core, she had rubbed at her ears, shaken her head, only to realize the sound hadn’t sprung from out-side—it had sprung from
inside
her. And yet, it hadn’t belonged to her. Her shock had morphed into confusion, her confusion into dread.

Was she crazy?

You don’t have to accept this,
the voice had said.

Then a little louder,
You are strong.

Then a lot louder,
You are victorious.

Maybe she
was
crazy, but she was also empowered, as if his words imparted strength straight into her core. She’d somehow gathered the courage to scream in her father’s face, “No! I won’t let you do this to me!”

He’d stumbled back a few steps, as though reeling,
before stopping and popping the bones in his knuckles, gearing up for the serious stuff. But instead of hitting her with a closed fist, he had paused, a bead of fear appearing in his eyes. Fear. Directed at her!

“I’m needed in the ring,” he’d muttered, baffling her further. “I’ll deal with you later.”

And he would, fearful or not. He never forgot a punishment due, and he never forgave, never showed mercy. Not even to her, his supposed beloved. That was why she’d decided to go back to the zoo and check on Blue Eyes. After all, a beating was already waiting for her. What better time to disobey and do what she wanted?