Gaslight (Crossbreed #4)(81)

“Why did you leave an hour early last night?” a man asked, his accent unmistakably British.

A paper bag rustled.

“The roads are terrible,” the woman from the shop replied. “I didn’t want to be late for work.”

“Nobody cares what we do in the morgue.”

Christian’s breath caught.

“I just thought I’d get a head start.”

The man didn’t raise his voice, but his words were threatening. “Do you know what a turncoat is? If I find out you’re up to something, you’ll be down there with her.”

Down there.

With her.

Raven was in the basement. He peered around the corner at the steps leading up to the back door. The low shrubs along the house didn’t obscure the windows, so he had to duck while running past them. Christian had reached the door, completely prepared to break in, when he noticed steps to his left leading down to a white door. Snow gathered only in the corners because of constant foot traffic, so he hurried down and turned the doorknob.

“Fecking dolt,” he murmured as the door opened. The blundering idiot had left it unlocked.

He listened upstairs to make sure no one sensed his presence. Bottles clinked as a fridge door opened and closed, and it sounded like the woman was unpacking her lamb.

“I could have ordered two pounds,” she said. “This isn’t enough.”

“It’s enough for me. Be nice, or I won’t give you the leftovers.”

Christian went inside, his Vampire eyes adjusting to the darkness. There weren’t any windows, so he carefully walked down the remaining steps. Old pipes ran across the ceiling, and it looked like a regular storage room. Boxes, gardening tools, a wheelbarrow—nothing of interest.

Then he heard it, the gentle ticking of Raven’s heart. He recognized that sound as if it were his own. His feet carried him toward a narrow hall straight ahead, the walls made of painted cinder block. There was a large opening on the right filled with tall pieces of furniture, old bicycles, tables, more boxes, and chairs. All that wood made him nervous.

He stared at a door on his left, a small window of iron bars allowing him to see inside a candlelit room. What he saw filled him with immeasurable rage, and his fangs punched out.

“Did you leave this door open again?” Fletcher yelled out.





Chapter 24





The manacles had loosened because of my weight loss, but not enough to remove them. My hip bones poked out, and though last night’s meal had restored some energy, it wasn’t enough. Fletcher had come in that morning to test me—to see if I’d continue fighting or give in. When he stripped away my blanket, I broke his nose and possibly fractured his leg. He didn’t mind. After all, he could heal outside or by taking light from Rachel.

I, on the other hand, was forced to watch my black bruises turn green and then a sickly yellow. My cuts never faded, and blood stained the floor. He brought in his breakfast that morning to eat in front of me, making sure I smelled his delicious sausages while he licked his fingers and delighted in his new method of torture.

Fuck him.

I tucked my arm beneath my head as I lay there staring at the wall, watching a bug slither into a crack in the floor. I briefly wondered what insects tasted like. Fletcher had just been down, and the vileness of what he’d done still snaked inside me. Blood trickled across my forehead, the wound refusing to close after he’d come close to juicing me unconscious.

My God, how did I ever survive the first time? His beatings were as cruel as the ways he found to humiliate me. The months I’d spent with him back then felt like years, and I shuddered to think he might actually keep me down here for decades. My one hope was finding a way to get into Rachel’s head.

Had she delivered my message? What if they’d given up their search and moved on? They didn’t exactly have any clues to go on. I needed to let go of the notion that someone would save me and instead turn my attention on how to save myself.

Maybe now was the time to see if I could pull his core light. I’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to pin him, but it hadn’t come. I needed to plan it right and execute the move with such finesse that he wouldn’t have the chance to break contact. That meant somehow pinning him down, and he was so much stronger.

A tear rolled across my nose, my eyes blurring. “I hate you,” I whispered.

All those years ago, I’d drawn motivation by hating the Vampire who’d gotten me into that situation. Now, for the first time, my anger was shifting to where it rightfully belonged. Fletcher was an animal—one who didn’t deserve my forgiveness or fear. He deserved every ounce of my hate. Houdini had given me that gift.

A draft suddenly blew in. Fletcher’s familiar footsteps neared, and the hinges creaked as the door opened. My stomach turned.

What was he doing back so soon?

“Have you been putting ideas into my Rachel’s head? That’s not very smart, turning a Mage against her Creator. She’s a punctual creature, and last night she left early. What did you two prattle on about?”

He nudged my back with his boot. When I peered up over my shoulder and gave him a look of defiance, he unzipped his pants.

“Someone wants to play,” he said darkly, unable to mask his delight.

Blood snaked into my eyes from the gash on my head, blinding me for a moment.