Last Kiss Goodnight (Otherworld Assassin) (32 page)

Vika. Where was she?

He pictured her, his sweet, kind Vika, and his fingers actually uncurled. He pictured her peering up at him, her lips swollen and glistening from his kisses, her eyes wide with bafflement and need, and his muscles relaxed.

To be with her, he
could
do this again. He could do anything.

I will have that woman. One day. Soon
.
Often.

And when that “one day” came, he would make her forget her aversion to the words.

“You deserve this, you know,” said Dr. E.

Right on time to try and revive Solo’s anger.

“No, you deserve what’s
about
to happen. Rescue.”

And there was X, here to build him up.

“Where were you guys while I was in the Nolands?” he demanded quietly, the words muffled by the muzzle across his mouth. “Wait. Rescue?”

A moment later, Vika raced into the tent. She was dressed in a glorious red dress, and he forgot his questions. Her arms were covered by a thick black coat, but the material was split in the middle and he could see that the top of her gown scooped low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. The bottom was so long it swept across the floor, curling around her feet as if it were enchanted mist. The material clung to her every curve,
and her body . . . it was a work of art. Small and lush, with hips that flared into a heart.

Her.
She’s mine,
he thought. He didn’t need X’s help anymore, not for this. He’d already realized that, yeah, but now the knowledge swirled where instinct beat with a heart of its own. Never again would he allow her to walk away from him.

She reached him, dropped the bag she was holding. Expression pale and pinched despite the bright makeup she wore, she immediately tried to undo the metal bars draped over his cuffs, pulling and tugging.

“We’re leaving tonight,” she said. “Now. No matter what we have to do.” But no matter how valiantly she struggled, she couldn’t remove the obstacles. “Argh! What should I do?”

He opened his mouth to answer, not sure she would be able to understand him, but she stiffened.

“Shh!” She raced behind the wheel, out of sight.

It was then that he heard the oncoming footsteps. “Your bag,” he whispered fiercely. She’d left the thing at his feet. But she couldn’t hear him, he reminded himself, and she had no idea she’d left evidence behind.

Three of Jecis’s guards suddenly entered the tent, each drinking from a half-empty bottle of booze. The trio stumbled toward Criss’s wheel, two of them arguing over who would get to have her first, and the third vowing to tame Kitten after he watched the other girl’s violation.

Solo scanned the rest of the otherworlders. Except for the Targon, all eyes were closed, as if the prisoners
couldn’t bear to watch what they couldn’t stop. Not the Targon, though. His eyes were open. His body was tense, each of his muscles knotted, as if he prepared to fight.

“Kaamil-Alize,” Solo growled.

The Targon’s attention swung his way, and they shared a moment of understanding. They had to do something. Anything.

Bottom line: He couldn’t allow this. For the women, and for Vika. She would try to stop the men. They would turn on her, Jecis’s daughter or not. They were drunk. They wouldn’t care.

The thought of Vika attacked . . . hurt by these disgusting humans . . . perhaps thrown down and stripped, perhaps even touched in ways she would forever despise. No! A new spurt of the drugs flowed through Solo’s veins, but not even that could dampen the chill of his determination.

Gritting his teeth, growling, he put all of his strength into his right arm, lifting . . . lifting . . . Muscles pulled and tendons tore, but still he lifted—until the metal from the wheel could no longer handle the strain and snapped away. Warm blood trickled down his arm.

The humans had reached Criss. They were too busy fondling her to notice Solo.

“What are you doing?” Dr. E demanded. “Stop! You’re hurting yourself.”

Funny thing. The being sounded incensed rather than concerned.

Solo ripped off the muzzle, and his arm dropped
limply to his side. The cuff was still there, still active, but at the moment he only cared about range of motion. Immediately he began to work on the other arm, lifting despite the pain, until those shackles fell away.

One of the guards heard him and glanced back. He noticed Solo’s half-free state and paled, slapping at his friends to get their attention. They spotted him and finally stopped laughing.

“What’re you doing?”

“Enough of that.”

They surged forward, and out raced Vika, whipping in front of Solo and spreading her arms.

“Leave him alone!” she shouted.

They paused, Solo momentarily forgotten.

“And what do we have here?” one said.

“A naughty little girl, that’s what.”

“I’ve always wanted me a piece of you, Vika Lukas, and here you are, throwing yourself at me. Jecis will surely understand if I take you up on your offer. Especially since he’s made it more than clear he’s done protecting you.”

The three moved toward her, only to freeze in place halfway. Each had a foot lifted in mid-stride. Each leered at Vika, expression unchanging.

“I’ll hold them as long as I can,” the Targon said through gritted teeth.

Solo had known Targon warriors possessed the ability to manipulate energy molecules and control the human body, but he’d assumed this particular warrior was too drugged to ever do so.

Vika swung to face Solo, her eyes wide. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Solo didn’t waste any time. Only his legs remained bound. As he tugged and jerked, one of his kneecaps popped out of place, but that didn’t stop him either. Nothing could, and finally he was free, falling from the wheel . . . crashing into the ground.

Through sheer grit and willpower he lumbered to his feet. Black dots wove through his vision as Vika rushed to his side, her soft hands flattening on his chest.

“Oh, Solo,” she breathed. “You’re hurt.”

He picked her up by the waist and set her behind him.

“Do what needs doing,” X said, his voice strained.

Even as he spoke, Solo felt another flood of warmth through his veins. Only this warmth didn’t spring from the drugs. It came from X. Bones began to snap back into place. Muscles began to weave back together.

The moment he was completely healed, X vanished.

And Solo. Utterly. Un. Leashed.

He surged forward, arms pumping at his sides, legs increasing in speed, until he left a trail of fire in his wake. He plowed into the guards and they jetted to the ground, hit hard. He ripped out the trachea of one—with his teeth—while clawing through the throat of another. Both acts happened in two seconds flat.

The third, finally able to move, tried to scramble away from him, but Solo picked him up. He stood, blood dribbling down his chin, and slammed the male into the ground from left to right, left to right, over
and over again, until he was panting, until his arms burned, until there was nothing left and he was holding only a blood-soaked coat.

Dr. E said something. The otherworlders called out to him. Solo was too lost to his rage to understand the actual words. He had to destroy this place. Had to ensure Vika never again suffered at the hands of these monsters. Had to save the others like him.

He plowed into the little ice cream shop, tilting the tin building to its side. The equipment scattered to the floor. Bottles of flavoring spilled, scenting the air with strawberries and vanilla. The fragrance only incensed him further, reminding him of the humans. Of being touched when he hadn’t wanted to be touched. He shredded the building, leaving only confetti, uncaring when jagged shards of tin cut him.

A group of males rushed into the tent to find out what was causing such a commotion. Eight, Solo counted as he straightened, ready for more.
Wanting
more. They spotted him and ground to a halt. Solo knew his skin had turned red. Knew his bones had enlarged, his ears had extended into sharp little points, his fangs had sprouted, and his claws had lengthened. He was the monster their mothers had probably always warned them about. The one under their bed, or in their closets. The one who would steal their souls.

He leapt into motion and slammed into them, a bowling ball to the pins. They fought against him, but they could not contain him. They tried, oh, they tried, but Solo ripped arms from sockets, ripped spines from beneath their fleshly coverings, bit and clawed and
tossed his opponents in every direction—in little bitty pieces.

“Solo,” he heard.

Soft, whispery. Frightened.

He whipped around, panting, nostrils flaring, his big body tense, his claws raised and ready to slash whatever had dared to frighten Vika. Wide plum-colored eyes peered over at him—and he was the target of her fear.

“Vika,” he said, his voice nothing more than a broken scrape.

She was still standing in front of his wheel, her little body quavering, her arms wrapped around her middle. “The others,” she said, and motioned to the otherworlders. “Let’s free them and go.”

She still wished to leave with him.

He would do whatever she asked.

He rushed to Kitten’s wheel. She had been struggling against her bonds, and blood was dripping down her arms. He reached out, yanked, and ripped one of the bars from the wheel, taking a huge hunk of wood with it.

“Watching you work was a real pleasure,” she said. “But you aren’t part of AIR, are you? I’m guessing you’re black ops all the way, baby.”

Silent, he reached for the second bar.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and Kitten paled.

“Go,” she said. “Come back for me later. With guns. And Dallas.”

He turned. Four other males and two females had just run into the tent. They stopped to catalogue the carnage, as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were
seeing. One of the females unleashed a blood-curdling scream.

His gaze swung to Vika. She was at Criss’s wheel, tugging ineffectually at one of the bars. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the rest of the otherworlders begged and pleaded with her to hurry.

He had a choice to make. Vika, or all the others. Right now, he couldn’t have both. The knowledge frustrated him, enraged him further, and guilt immediately began to chew on his bones. Because honestly? He didn’t need a moment to think. He already knew what he was going to do: grab Vika and run.

He
would
come back, though. There was no question about that. He wouldn’t leave these people defenseless for any longer than necessary.

Decided, he rushed to Vika’s side and scooped her up.

“If you want to save anything here,” the Targon called, “I’d return in nine days.”

Why nine days?

“My bag,” Vika gasped out. “Please! I need it.”

The males had finally looked past the pile of dead bodies and the pools of blood and noticed him. Shouts erupted. Solo backtracked, grabbed the bag’s strap, and fit it over his shoulder. The moment the weight settled against him, surprise filled him. Little Vika had carried this thing? On her own? It had to weigh a hundred pounds, at the very least.

Another group of men entered the tent, claiming his attention—and Jecis occupied the center. His stormy gaze locked on Solo, and the skull he always
carried with him, the one that moved of its own accord, separate from his own bones, that dark presence, tilted back, stretched open its jaw, and shrieked.

One day, we’ll have our showdown,
Solo vowed, and ran in the opposite direction.
One day very soon.

Twenty-four

Hurry, my beloved, and be like a gazelle or a young stag on the mountains of spices.

—SONG OF SOLOMON 8:14

S
OLO CARRIED VIKA AND
her bag through the night, into the mountains. He had to be freezing. She was. And he was naked, and frost practically coated the air.

“I brought you clothes and shoes,” she said through chattering teeth. “They’re in the bag.”

Maybe he replied, maybe he didn’t. Either way, he kept going.

What had happened inside the tent . . . Total devastation was the only way to describe it. He had morphed into the raging red beast the others had called him. He had hurt people. He had killed.

He had protected.

She hadn’t been afraid of him, and the knowledge had stunned her. He would never hurt her, and deep down, where the knowing he’d taught her about swirled, she’d understood that. She’d been afraid
for
him.

Any moment, someone could have walked into the tent with a gun and shot him. If that had happened,
her father would have killed him, not just to punish him for what he’d done but because Jecis would have feared him, even behind the cage.

“I can walk,” she said, not wanting him to have to carry the entire burden of their escape.

He set her down without ever breaking stride, clasped her hand, and dragged her behind him. They maneuvered around trees—so many trees!—and over thick stumps. An eternity later, he glanced back at her.

“Questions? Concerns? Comments?”

“Where are we?” she asked. Jecis hadn’t said. All she knew was that she’d never been here.