Keystone (Crossbreed #1)(79)
“Fine.”
I sat back and crossed my foot over my knee, casually tapping my fingers on my boot.
When the driver sped up, I heaved a reluctant sigh, reclining my head against the seat. Had I tried to escape, they would have restrained me, so I played it cool until I found an opportunity to do something about my situation. Not long after we entered the city, the pedestrians had become a distraction to the man on my left. Each time we stopped at an intersection, his head would turn away.
I glanced up at the goon to my right and blew a soft breath on his neck. He shivered and looked down at me, his lips pressed tight.
“Ever had a threesome in the back of a cab?” I whispered.
His eyes were concealed, but when his lips parted, that was the answer I needed.
With lightning speed, I pulled a blade from the heel of my boot and jammed it in his leg. I turned left and reached into his friend’s jacket in search of weapons. The cab swerved, and the man tried to throw me off, his friend still paralyzed from the stunner I’d left in his thigh.
He slammed me against the divider and reached inside his jacket. I grabbed his arm and wrenched it away, punching him in the throat with my free hand. He swung his right arm and hit me in the shoulder instead of the face. I grabbed hold of his weapon—a long dagger—which I held to his throat.
“Is this a stunner?” I asked, removing his sunglasses. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
The cab was going at breakneck speed. If the driver had stopped, I would have gotten out and fled.
I pressed the sharp tip of the blade into the man’s neck until blood crawled down onto his shirt. His eyes bulged, and his trembling movement confirmed that this was no blade infused with magic.
But daggers could still do some serious damage, and he didn’t seem like the kind of man with a high tolerance for pain.
“Okay, okay,” he said, raising his arms.
“Tell your friend to pull over.”
When he suddenly glanced out the window, it made me look.
The next thing I knew, the guy behind me grabbed my arms and held them back, forcing me to drop the knife.
The guy on my left had my push dagger in his right hand. He must have pulled it from his friend’s leg when I wasn’t paying attention.
Sneaky bastard!
My fangs punched out, and I lunged for the man’s bloody neck.
He recoiled, shoving me back. “Holy Christ! What the hell is that?”
Cuffs clicked around my wrists. “We could have done this the easy way,” the guy on the right said, bearing his weight down on me.
The closer my head got to the other man’s leg, the more I tried to reach to bite him. He all but stood up on his seat, climbing over me to the other side of the cramped cab.
“Scoot over!” he barked at his friend.
He shoved me against the left door, leaving me in an awkward position, my arms bound.
They unzipped my duffel bag, and he said, “Hold her down.”
When the big guy put his weight across my hips, holding my head against the door with his hand, I thrashed beneath him like a feral animal. My hips screamed in pain, and something felt ready to snap.
They tied a strip of fabric around my head so that it went between my teeth. Two of my sharpest weapons snagged in the tight weave of a red T-shirt. I could have fought, but what was the point? I’d spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, and I had no one to protect me. I had to look at this as an opportunity I might never have again—to face the man who wanted me dead.
Beneath the one guy’s crushing weight, the lack of oxygen made me light-headed. I should have never assumed the men had accidentally gotten into the cab. That was my human nature still kicking and alive. Humans rationalized dangerous situations, afraid to react when it might be a misunderstanding.
And now two hundred and fifty pounds of misunderstanding was squeezing the life out of me in the backseat of a taxicab.
Christian entered the interior balcony that overlooked Keystone. A heavy mist thickened the air, and had there been a hint of sunshine, he was certain a rainbow would have appeared. He placed his forearms on the stone railing and leaned forward, his gaze chasing a wild rabbit that was scurrying across the lawn. It wasn’t common to see them out in the daytime since they burrowed low to hide from the hawks.
Maybe the rabbit saw him and recognized Christian for what he was: a predator. A dark soul with black eyes and the instincts of a hunter.
Killing was a Vampire’s nature—a melody in their blood they could either dance to or ignore. In the early years, Vampires needed that coping mechanism for survival, removing the remorse they would inevitably feel after draining their victims. But this was no longer the Middle Ages; Vampires had long since become civilized in terms of controlling their blood addiction. A youngling’s first years were the most difficult, so their maker needed patience to guide them through the bloodlust. A Vampire occasionally drank blood to uncover information about people, so it was imperative that they learn to control their urges.
Raven reminded him a lot of himself in the early years. His maker had tried to temper his anger, but Christian was bitter from the mistreatment he’d endured in his human life. The land of opportunity had turned out to be a cesspool filled with poverty and greed. America attracted aristocrats who saw an opportunity to elevate themselves by ensuring the lower class stayed right where they were. Had his maker not been a patient man, there was no telling where Christian would be now.