The Purest of the Breed (The Community) (2 page)

“Lila!” Marissa screamed, more tears dripping off her nose. “Call 911!”

“Oh, shit!” Lila lurched out from behind her door.

With a careless backhand, Hulk swatted Lila across the mouth, the blow, shockingly, lifting Lila off her feet and rocketing her all the way back onto her bed. She thumped onto her mattress with a frightened cry, her makeshift toga breezing above her waist and her legs flinging wide, giving everyone a full-on shot of her muff.

Gangrene leered at the sight. “Hang about, Mürk. I want to give this one a stuffin’.”

“There’s no time,” Hulk—apparently,
Mürk
—retorted. “We’ve got to leg it, Tëer, everyone else is at the warehouse by now.”

Tëer grumbled something foul, but tramped out of the apartment along with Mürk, thankfully for Lila’s virtue, and got into the elevator.

Fingers tangled into the back of Mürk’s jacket, Marissa prayed for some late night partier to come home conveniently
now
and find her upended on this behemoth’s shoulder. She filled her lungs with a potential scream just in case, but no such luck. The parking lot was equally Judgment Day deserted and dark. The scratching together of palm fronds in a mild June breeze was the only sound besides the clomp of both men’s heavy boots on the asphalt.

They stopped at a rusted-out blue Honda Civic, one headlight-eyeball dangling from the front by wiry veins, and then
screech
, metallic hinges wailed for oil as Mürk hauled open the trunk. He flung Marissa off his shoulder with all the care he’d show a dead body, and—
the trunk
!

She fastened cat claws into his T-shirt and clambered back up his body. “No!”

He peeled her off and thrust her toward the dark opening again.

She crammed her foot against the edge of the trunk, the metal sharp and cold against her bare flesh. “Don’t put me in there!”

With a growl, he folded her into a ball and slammed her inside.

Ribs met spare tire in a dizzying blast of pain. Her spine throbbed. She wheezed a breath and shoved upright, ignoring the pinpricks of light sparkling across the field of her vision.

With a palm on her shoulder, Mürk rammed her back down. “Bloody hell,” he hissed.

“Not in the trunk!” She opened her mouth to yell for— He stuffed a ball gag into it, then flipped her onto her stomach. The stench of brake fluid assaulted her nostrils; a lug wrench ground into her cheek. Liquid fear clutched her lower belly as Mürk secured the strap of the ball gag tight against the back of her head, then bound her wrists.

She bucked and flailed, whipping herself back over. She gnashed on her ball gag and tried to scream around it.
Not in a trunk
!

“Stop throwin’ a benny, you fuckin’ split arse.” Mürk’s gaze was tundra cold, black as the end of the world.

She sobbed in panic, her nostrils pinching and releasing, pinching and releasing. She couldn’t breathe! She kicked her legs up.

“You keep givin’ me trouble, ducky, and I’ll sock you in the turnip so many times you’ll never find your way back from ugly, savvy?” His voice was deep and dark like first generation Hell, but also incongruously laced with that touch of British culture. He braced a hand on the open lid of the trunk, his Guns & Roses T-shirt hiking up to reveal a peek of gnarled scar on his belly. Somebody had tried to gut this maniac jerk?
Shocking
!

The trunk lid started to come down…

She shook her head wildly at him, trying to scream again, her chest and throat tightening.

He slammed the lid shut, interring her in black. She thrashed her head from side to side, her heartbeat erratic, her eyes bugging and rolling as she tried to see anything…anything.

The engine turned over, then the car moved forward. Stars burst apart at the sides of her vision, her fingertips going numb.
Stop it, Marissa! Calm. Down
. All this panicky crying was only clogging her nose, making it harder to breathe and to rationally
think
her way through her fear of suffocation, a phobia which was the result of a rather clichéd near-drowning experience at the age of twelve. The not so clichéd part—at least she hoped in families besides hers—was that her ten-year-old sister had watched from the edge of the pool while Marissa struggled in the water. And done nothing. Natalie had known about Marissa’s limitations, yet she hadn’t called for help, hadn’t thrown any Mickey Mouse arm-floaties her way. No. She’d just given Marissa a look of cool dislike which, to this day, Marissa didn’t understand…and Natalie had never bothered to explain.

Even earlier today, Marissa had once again been subjected to one of Natalie’s love-bombs. “The position of head chef at
Le Bistrot Angoulême
restaurant is being offered to Natalie Bonaventure.” Marissa had gritted her teeth behind the smile she’d offered the owner of San Diego’s new up-and-coming French restaurant. “Oh? You mean, my
sister
?” The woman who’d spent four years at the prestigious Johnson and Wales University in Providence while Marissa had slammed through a program at the San Diego Culinary Institute in seven months. Stuck in California due to her mother’s poor health, Marissa’s options had been limited, but it’d all worked out since she’d been able to go out and gain something called, hello,
real world experience
. You’re fricking kidding me, right?

Fate had no concept of fair. For Marissa’s whole life, her younger sister had been able to steal her aspirations with pitiful ease, effectively deepening the fear of failure which had always dogged her. Jesus, it was hard enough to deal with her own personal challenges—how long had it taken to be able to stand for extended periods at a cook station?—without having the additional emotional strain of competing with a woman who should’ve been a support to her. What Marissa had ever done to inspire Natalie’s one-woman mission to outdo and undermine her, she had no earthly idea, but she was ready to stop twisting herself into knots trying to figure it out. In the end, she should be partially glad for it. If not for a particular, unforgivable act of cruelty on Natalie’s part, Marissa might not have ever resolved herself to acquire the backbone, both figuratively and literally, she’d always lacked.

Marissa forced a deep, even breath, then another, her lungs working more efficiently now. Without realizing it, her side trip into anger had helped calm her fear.
Yes, stay composed
. She’d need all her smarts for what lay ahead.

Gravel clattered beneath the car tires, and the Civic pitched to a stop. Marissa tensed, readying herself for more dreams to be shattered. Because whatever was about to happen now, she wouldn’t be making it back to her normal life afterward. She was very sure about that.

The trunk lurched open, and Mr. Personality heaved her out and set her on her feet. Her body was running with sweat, tears still wet on her cheeks. She scanned the area, and her belly tangled around itself.
Not good
. An abandoned warehouse hulked several yards away, some windows broken, others boarded up, black rot weeping down the entire front of the wooden façade. Dirt and gravel surrounded the building, a chain-link fence beyond that, and then more warehouses stacked in a row. Some looked to be operational, but this early in the morning, no one was about. No one to offer help or a shred of hope.

The stereophonic boom of rap music heralded the arrival of two more cars. A green Ford Taurus blasted up the path, careening to a halt in a spray of gravel. On its tail followed an lowrider Impala, rear hydraulics deflated nearly to the bumpers, its muffler spewing a guttural rumble that sounded like it belonged to a boat engine. The blare of rap shut off, then two men climbed out of each vehicle. All four were tall and muscular, dressed in a mismatched collection of castoffs, and grubby in a way that hinted at crust lurking in unmentionable places. They reeked of a backed-up toilet. Three had black hair and tattoos which suggested more neo-Nazi devotees, although theirs were more like huge interlocking black teeth than flames.

“Hey, ass-pounder,” the fourth one with fiery red hair hailed Mürk, earning a sneer out of her captor. “Ho, she’s a good ’un.” Red’s dark eyes roved over her like a pair of dirty hands.

Her skin crawled. She shuddered.

“Didn’t you say you had four?” Red added.

“We just got here, shit-eater,” Mürk retorted. “There should be three more bits inside.”

Red hitched a shoulder at his black-haired companions, and the group of them clumped toward the warehouse.

Mürk grabbed her arm and pulled her along, but with her feet bare, she could do no more than hunt-and-peck over the gravel. Rumbling another impatient growl, Mürk hoisted her up on one hip and lugged her across the path.

He set her back down inside what appeared to be a den of iniquity. A single naked bulb hung over an unmade bed, no less than a horde of filthy Huns clearly having screwed on the sheets. A table in the middle was strewn with playing cards, an overflowing ashtray, and a dozen empty beer bottles slowly transforming their dregs into penicillin. Off to the side, there was another table where—

The blood drained from Marissa’s face in a sickening rush, a horrified breath whooshing out of her.

“What the fuck!?” Red snarled.

A gagged and bound woman with brassy blonde hair was bent over the table, a man mounted behind her, his leather pants sagged down around his knees, his hips surging vigorously against her hind end. He was shirtless, black flame tattoos sprawling in tangled branches up from his ribbed abdomen to his enormous pecs, like Joshua Tree taken a nasty turn into Sleepy Hollow. He had his victim’s butt cheeks clasped in his large hands and was spreading them wide, his gaze lowered to the sight of his dick thrusting between them. Saliva gushed from the corners of the woman’s mouth as she chewed her ball gag around silent screams, her reddened face awash in tears and snot.

A low groan escaped Marissa, nausea surging onto the back of her tongue, her mind rebelling against the appalling sight. The room melted before her eyes like hot wax, the floor bending sideways beneath her feet, sending her on an express trip
down
. On the way, she caught sight of another blonde woman, huddled against the wall right behind the rape scene, the whites of her eyes showing with the kind of raw terror Marissa thought she’d already experienced tonight, but apparently hadn’t.

She had a feeling she was headed in that direction fast.

Chapter Two

Two hours earlier: Community of Ţărână, 1:15 p.m.

Dev Nichita stood at parade rest in front of the U-shaped conference table, his hands locked at the small of his back and his legs spread wide, every muscle in his body tensed rock-hard. Earlier, the locker room mirror had confirmed that he was a scary-assed vision in black, from the trim cut of his hair and goatee, to his form-fitting shirt, fatigues, and the broad cut of his trench coat, all the way down to his thick, steel-toed combat boots. The only sign of color on him were his trademark small, gold hoop earring dangling from his left lobe, and his silver eyes, the heat at the back of them suggesting they were lit up with excitement. Yeah, he was pumped for this, trickles of adrenaline already swirling through his blood like a drug. Finally, a chance to lead his own team…

If
he could get past the damned Council, that was, the four primary members of which he was facing right now.

“I really don’t see why this mission is necessary.”

Dev stopped himself from rolling his eyes, but only just. Roth Mihnea, a man of Dev’s own race and one of the leaders of this hidden underground community called Ţărână, was the Nervous Nellie of the group, making him Dev’s biggest obstacle. Roth’s over-protectiveness was somewhat understandable, considering the man had seen enough death among their people to last two lifetimes, but also damned annoying when it led him to balk at extremely important shit. Like this.

“What’s your reticence, Roth?” Dr. Tonĩ Parthen asked this without looking up at her co-leader of the community. She was still frowning down at the email Alex, her geeky computer expert brother, had handed to her. It was an intercepted communiqué sent from their new Half-Rău/half-Fey enemies, who lived topside, to their long-standing enemies, the demonic Om Rău, who were the community’s neighbors. Apparently, the Topside Om Rău were handing over four women to the Underground Om Rău at a warehouse in a couple of hours. No one knew why. Dev couldn’t give a flying fuck why.

Tonĩ looked up at Roth now, lowering the email to the conference table. There weren’t many women who were a perfect dime, but Tonĩ came as close as a girl could get, with a stunner of a face and a killer rack to back it. Her lush strawberry-blonde hair was currently piled on top of her head, a few loose strands drifting around her face. The hairstyle was distracting as hell to the men around here, just as bad as seeing a girl’s tits racked-and-stacked into some low-cut number. Tonĩ should know that, of course, after nearly five months of living in their culture, which meant she was probably just trying to aggravate her husband, as wives seemed to totally love doing. And even though Jaċken Brun, the leader of Ţărână’s Warrior Class and Dev’s immediate superior, was completely focused on the problem at hand, he was also multi-tasking and letting his eyes stray along the delicious curve of her throat from time to time.

Hard to believe that just a little over four months ago Dev had been one of Tonĩ’s mate-choice options, and seriously focused on getting into her pants. Really glad that hadn’t worked out. He didn’t have anything against strong women—preferred them, in fact—but Tonĩ was turning out to be, er, way more woman than he felt equipped to handle. Better that the job of husband had fallen to Jaċken, who, thanks to that healthy dollop of Om Rău in his blood, was probably the only man with the strength and discipline to effectively straddle the fence of husband and co-worker without falling to either side. Dev and Tonĩ had been left to become good friends, which they’d done.