Toxic (Denazen #2)(34)

“Well, what’s—wait…my situation?”

The twins both snickered and continued standing guard.

Dad’s smile widened, and he clucked his tongue in mock sympathy. “Yes. Very sad. I heard about your issue with 98.”

“How did you—you know what? Don’t care. What about this girl? What’s different about her? How far past eighteen is she?” I couldn’t believe I was trying to have a rational, civil conversation with that same man who’d drugged my mom, then locked her up for seventeen years. I should have been trying to choke him. Instead, we were playing Twenty Questions.

“She was given a vaccine. Something developed in hopes of a cure.”

I almost dropped Ginger’s package and lunged forward to shake him violently by his overpriced lapels. “And it worked? Why the hell haven’t you given it to the rest of them?”

“It’s made from a very rare component that we’ve recently discovered. There isn’t much, and we have no way to get more at the moment. I saw no reason to waste it.” His fingers drummed a steady beat on the doorframe. “Tell me, Deznee, what would you be willing to sacrifice for a cure?”

And there it was.

“We done? ’Cause I know, sure as shit, you didn’t expect me go along with this.” I attempted to brush past him, but he stepped into my path.

“Actually, I did.” He reached for me.

I’ll admit it. I panicked. The Devil of Denazen, Kale had called him once, and it was the truth. The man had no soul and wouldn’t think twice about shoving his own mother in front of a speeding train if it got him where he needed to go.

Grip like a vice around my forearm, he gave a brutal squeeze. With a nod over his shoulder toward the boys, he said, “You’ve met the twins before, correct?”

Goose bumps skittered along my skin, but I played it cool. Brandt’s words, pay attention, echoed in my ears. I peered around him and fixed my best badass glare at the twins. “Tall, annoying goth boys with a tragic sense of style?”

One of them—Able, I think it was—flipped me off, while the other blew me an exaggerated kiss.

“A pathetic replacement for 98, I’ll admit, but handy nonetheless. Tell me, Deznee. How have you been feeling lately?”

The temperature dropped. Screw that. It plummeted. Suddenly I felt like a ham hock hanging on a meat rack. I became acutely aware of the throbbing ache in my left shoulder and how it sent tiny prickles across my skin, causing the muscles in my fingers to twitch every now and then.

Don’t say it, my brain begged. Don’t tell me. If I didn’t know, I could continue to ignore it.

He smiled. My expression had given me away. “Aubrey and Able are interesting specimens. Not as interesting as 98 but still very handy. One’s touch can poison you. Slow and painful, the venom creeps through the bloodstream and effectively liquefies you from the inside out. I’ve seen it. It’s quite nasty.”

“Sounds charming.” Score one for me. I managed to say it without my voice shaking, but I had to tighten my grip on the package. Trembling fingers probably would have made it obvious.

“As simply as one can poison you, the other can heal you. All it takes is a single touch.”

“And you’re telling me this why?”

Before I could stop him, he yanked back the neck of my T-shirt with his free hand, exposing my shoulder. “Because your clock is officially ticking. Think it over.”

He released me and stepped back, straightening his jacket. The twin who had blown me a kiss waved.

“One cure when you return to Denazen with me, and the other when we have 98 back in custody.”

And then they were gone.





12


After I forced myself to move, I’d mailed Ginger’s package and then proceeded to drive around for a while in a daze. I had to get back to the hotel, but the thought of facing everyone—of facing Kale—now that I knew the truth was like a string of bricks around my neck, dragging me under. Soon to be six feet under, if what Dad said was true. I needed to think for a minute. Decide what to do.

I pulled into the coffee shop a block from the hotel and made a beeline for the bathroom. With a deep breath, I angled myself in front of the mirror and brushed aside my shirt.

One of the things I was best known for was my iron-coated stomach. Even in school, when they showed those films about drunk drivers—mangled cars tangled with decapitated corpses and gore—I’d held it together. Pig dissection? No problem. I even survived Sloppy Joe Day. Now, though, seeing the angry red patch and its new additions—spindly black lines that snaked out in all directions—I was about to lose my lunch. And last night’s dinner.

Maybe everything I’d eaten for the entire week.

The irritated red, bruise-like patch I’d woken up with a few days ago was now inflamed and deep purplish. The center was darker—not quite black—but close, and the tiny tendrils that crept out seemed to throb with a life of their own. Twice I had to blink because I was sure they’d twitched and squirmed underneath my skin.

Suddenly I was having a hard time catching my breath. I fixed my shirt. Don’t look. Out of sight, out of mind. Another deep breath, and I turned to the door. I needed to get back to the hotel before they started to wonder. The most important thing was to not make a big deal out of this. Keep it hidden. Stay chill.